Why I Paint
On Creating
In January my husband and I discerned what we’d like to learn in the year ahead. When he took up calligraphy, I decided to try my hand at watercolors. As a writer, I knew this would challenge my tendency toward perfectionism and be an exercise in humility.
Fiction writer Flannery O’Connor wrote on “habit of art,” a phrase from Jacques Maritain. “Habit” refers to “a certain quality or virtue of the mind. The scientist has the habit of science; the artist, the habit of art.” In the past year, O’Connor’s own paintings were discovered. She painted what she saw—birds, cows, landscapes, self-portraits. I’m not surprised that she drew cartoons and painted. Her artistic vision was very much inspired by and woven with her Catholicism, seeing reality with her sacramental imagination. She knew that mystery is always at the heart of reality.
When you study a flower to paint, mysterious features start to stand out—the veins run in harmonious directions, the petals filter the light in radiant ways, fragile buds hold nascent petals with delicate strength. Sometimes when I’m painting, I even imagine what the mind of God is like and ponder what it would be like to envision and bring to life such beauty—petals as soft as newborn cheeks, ethereal fragrances that defy the best chemical laboratory, colors that stun (and colors that remain a mystery to human eyes).
The habit of art is not the perfection of art—though striving for excellence is always inherently good to any craft or activity. It is habit, showing up for five, ten, fifteen minutes to do the task at hand, to open our eyes to the magnificence that often goes unnoticed.
Even when I notice all that goes wrong in my art—wonky sepals and wiggly lines—I try to take a profound posture of humility, realizing that the desire to make things whole and beautiful isn’t wrong in itself but can mislead us to believe we alone can control that final end. I learn what the capacity to co-create truly entails. It is always looking up toward the Creator to see as I was meant to see as a creature.
A final note on watercolors for those who might be curious: I love this form because you often have to trust where the water moves. You have to account for light and color. It’s a welcome respite to see with quiet clarity and take a break from the fluorescent lights and pixeled screens that can overshadow seeing the gift of another day.
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Ooooh I needed to read this message today. Thank you!!