Word Painting

I am envious, in a good way, of my friends who are able to draw and paint. I love the way an artist chooses colors to build a mood. I am in awe of the power of the placement of shadows, how subtle dashes of texture connect me to the emotions that are in the artist's head. I delight in both a crowded canvas and a deserted one. There is power in the simple, and in the complex, and in all that fall between.

I realize that writing is not much different. Words like splatters, carefully placed; detail balanced against the "big picture;" repetitive brushstrokes, creating depth.

Wednesdays are my word painting day (New Year's resolution to do "writing exercises" to jump start creativity). There is a book with that title, "Word Painting" (by Rebecca McClanahan), which I've never read but will have to add to my Amazon list. If anyone has explored it, let me know what you think.

P.S. Ritapita recently wrote a moving and beautiful word portrait of a woman she knows. You can read it here (Scroll through February archives to February 10--I couldn't figure out how to link to it directly. Oh, but read her other stuff, too. It's all good!).

______________

Grocery Store:

This visit is a blur, a streak of red apples, a burst of pale yellow melons, rows of Star-Kist tuna turning into an expressway of blue and silver lines.

The light is harsh. It is unnatural and forced, like the flaming red lipstick dashed across the lips of the woman running the deli. She grabs a slab of ham and places it on the slicer. The knife glides easily, dividing the meat into paper-thin, pink slices that are wrapped in a plastic bag, then sealed with a sticker.

There is a woman wearing a floral themed rain bonnet, inspecting primroses with her stubby fingers, fingers that I am sure are comfortable in soil, adept at separating roots. There is a younger girl in an unzipped coat; it flaps open to reveal a pale blue smock decorated with storks. She puts a wedge of gruyere into her cart, then takes it out and tosses it back into the cheese case. She pauses, then grabs it again, studies the label, her lips moving as she reads. She tosses it into the cart and sighs. Her white sneakers squeak against the floor as she wheels her purchases away.

There is the man who I race to the checkout, his face convoluted with wrinkles, like a brain. They crease harder, those wrinkles, when I beat him to it and pile my items-Ore Ida Hashbrowns, asparagus quiches, luncheon meat, frozen cavatelli, and Pepito flour Tortillas-onto the belt. His cart contains six gallons of water and two boxes of Robitussin. This is a practical, efficient man, I can tell, with orderly items, an orderly life, and a mask of control giving way to a river of worry that has cut gorges across his face.

The cashier hums along to "It's Only Rock and Roll" by the Rolling Stones, and I think we both feel that Mick is seducing us with his tongue popping, repetitive, "I like it, like it, yes, I do." There are other cashiers, too, standing by the electronic doors, gossiping about county officials as my receipt and my coupons print; when they say "county," it is a drawl like this: kee-ow-n-teee. At times, I find myself, a PA native, adopting this slighty Southern-tinged dialect, kee-ow-n-tee, and it still surprises me.

The light outside now seems unnatural; I am used to the heavily made-up, stage look of indoors. Daylight is nude lipstick on a plain girl. The trees on the outskirts of the parking lot are nothing but oddly angled trunks and skinny, awkward branches.

I pass a boy, a nearly grown up one with shaggy hair, stomping his sneakers into puddles. The water splashes the hems of his pants, and he laughs. He stomps again before he leaves the gray and enters the store that is exploding with color. The doors slide shut behind him.