People sometimes ask me why I paint, and on a bad day I sometimes ask myself the same.
It’s mysterious really, the pull to return to the canvas day after day. My daughter has pointed out, as I stand in my paint splattered clothes that not everyone spends their time this way. Have you ever wondered what draws you to what you do? To what you love?
For me over the years the answer to my question has come, perhaps strangely, as a recurring image, like a dream you might have on repeat, though I am always fully awake.
Yesterday as I closed the studio door after a somewhat frustrating day, the recurring vision greeted me in the waning light: an image of the “fisher”. I could say fisherman but somehow fisher seems the right word to match the image.
It’s an old timey word I would never use in conversation but I always recognize it as something that comes to remind me of why I do what I do in a mysterious way; in a way that only images or metaphors can do.
My image of the fisher is an ancient human dressed simply in handmade clothes. He stands on the grassy shore of a lake, fishing pole cast into the water. Peaceful and patient.
I can’t tell you where or why this image appears from time to time, but I can tell you how it speaks to me about the creative process.
For me the act of painting (and writing, too) is like casting a line into a deep, mysterious pool. I stand alone at the edge in quiet anticipation of what may appear. I have prepared my gear, come to this place, and now pay close attention to the cues. I know the lay of the land, where to cast my gaze, the right tug on the line I need to make.
As a painter I make a mark or a brush stroke, choose a colour and am drawn to the next one, and the next. I can stand by the edge of the pond while time goes on without me.
Like every good fisher I am simply happy to be there, responding to what needs to be done. I never know if anything will show up or exactly what it might be; a snag, a bit of weed or the perfect trout. I trust that this pond has something in it for me. I don’t have control over outcomes. That is how the creative process works; how life works in many ways. One step, and then the next.
At the end of the day I may come home with an empty basket, walking head down feeling some chagrin over a perceived defeat. On a good day there is appreciation for time well spent, results aside.
Perhaps the most interesting thing is no matter what the day brings, I always return to cast my line again.
What am I looking for? Beauty? Harmony? To share these things with the world are two answers that often come to me. And yet that answer still feels incomplete.
The question makes me ponder the mystery that is a human life. Why are we drawn to what we do? What are we really searching for when we cast our line into the world? A sense of purpose? Meaning? Truth? Or something more elusive? Or is it just what we do here at this strange location in the universe?
