Brushstrokes

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12 November/Posted by aaronplaat

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In a diversion from my usual ramblings, this blog is intended to give a small snapshot into the mind of a creator. My entire life, I’ve loved creating things purely for the love of seeing something emerge from the nothingness.

Artists, creators, etc. have all been blessed with a gift – and a curse – at the same time; the urge to create. 

This urge doesn’t follow common sense. More often than not, it is in direct opposition to it. However, it must be followed. Obeyed. Listened to.

Creators aren’t just people who know how to transform nothing into something; they are people who feel an emotional connection with their creations. They know others will be touched by their work, craftsmanship, and passion.

Thus, they can’t help but create. They understand their mission; to create, showcase, and express the beauty, emotion, and life found in the world.

When an artist picks up their brush, there’s a little bit of them that is picking up their proverbial cross, as they visualize emotions, expression, and life that many don’t know how to express, or convey.

Support your creators. They’re not just artists, but entrepreneurs, parents, the person at the checkout counter who always makes you smile. They’re everywhere. 

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In the beginning, God created the heaven[s] and the earth…

I try to go back to that first moment where the foundations of the universe were pieced together. I can’t help but wonder, is this new creation an attempt to right previous wrongs, or allow them space to transpire? Is it an attempt to make things somehow…right? 

Behind the mind of every creator lies a drive for their creation. In the hands of an artist, a brush ebbs and flows with skillful precision; creating a masterpiece in front of the eyes of the artist.

The potter works the clay. The seamstress, their needle and cloth. The architect dreams of skylines they’ve yet to build…

In the mind of every creator lies a world that intersects their creation. In some cases, even welcoming it.

It’s this future world that reminds them their work(s) aren’t yet complete, which perhaps drives them to put on one more coat of paint, or cut that extra strand of hair.

The Master’s touch. I’ve known a few to possess it in their craft. These people are artisans in what they do; transforming everything their hands touch into works far more valuable than gold.

In my own life, I’ve found the most beautiful creations have come from a heart and mind that was struggling to keep it all together on the outside.

Beauty does rise from the ashes. Sometimes not with the grace of a Phoenix, but the desperate authenticity that comes when one shoots out a proverbial flare to the universe.

Help. I can’t do it on my own…but, I will try.

The paint flies onto the canvas, and the artist tries to keep up with the outpouring of emotions now speaking through the vessel of brush and canvas.

One foot in front of the other. Life enchants you to go one step further…meet the bell, kid.

Pain. Hurt. Defeat. These strokes must be on the canvas…

Joy. Rapture. Victory. Hope. Love. Gratitude. These strokes, too. 

Why am I doing this? I’m not a master. How could I ever dare of creating a masterpiece? 

The paint slowly drips down the canvas, painting a long black tear as it dries.

The artist takes a moment to step outside; relieving himself of the paint fumes that remind him the cost of knowing is one that few pay the price to see.

Memories flood his mind. Times where life was simpler. Times where his Dad was there to pick up the broken pieces and put them back together…

Christmas morning. Late-night adventures with family. The phone call. Flatline.

Time. The greatest gift we have…racing past you like bullets to a real-life Neo.

I’ll never forget you…Dad. This one’s for you.

He walks down to the basement and tears into the canvas with a line of spray paint. Yes. This is exactly what the piece needed…

In that moment, all of the emotions stand to their feet and give one last standing ovation. They understand each other now, a little bit better than they did before.

Each has their place on the canvas. Represented. Proud. Painfully present. Adorned. Honored.

Stepping back. He looks at the canvas. Still wet with color, glistening like a body coming from the ocean tide…

It’s perfect.

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Posted by aaronplaat

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