The Miracle of Painting

Waiting for Dawn by Richard Edde

We tend to think of art as that thing that moves us, that it is the painting, music, or writing that becomes the object of our affection. Our culture has prizes for the best art, the best music, the best written word. The painting, in my case, becomes the end all of my work. From the Renaissance to now we became self-defining individuals and view the world as a set of neutral objects to be studied, copied, manipulated, or redefined in an artistic way. We became creative subjects separate from the objects we paint and merely observe or comment on the world in which we live.

However, I think creating art goes deeper than that. Something happens to the person who paints a picture. And it happens while he or she is in the act of painting.

So, what happens when the brush touches the canvas?

My answer is -- a miracle.

In the process of painting I realize and become who I am because through this expression I clarify and make distinct who I am and am becoming. In touching paint to canvas I become a human being. I have created not only a painting, but myself. This is the miracle. I rarely wonder if my work is important or will have lasting value or if I should be better occupied. Instead, the painting draws me into the thing that captivates me and time ceases to exist. A heady moment, indeed.

For if art's only value was to infect us with the creator's passion it would be a very sad situation. Art's true nature is that of transubstantiation, something that transcends ordinary feelings and goes beyond the normal, conventional means of expression. In doing so the artist has enhanced his existence, he has seen, he has become. I know that fragile human effort, almost painfully awkward, can come together into something worthy of divinity.

Just paint it!