“One of the most important things to have learned in life is that choosing joy in a world rife with reasons for despair is a countercultural act of courage and resistance, choosing it not despite the abounding sorrow we barely survive but because of it, because joy — like music, like love — is one of those entirely unnecessary miracles of consciousness that give meaning to survival with its bright allegiance to the most alive part of us.”
Maria Popova, “A Defense of Joy“, The Marginalian
A friend coming to visit who wanted to try painting with oils for the first time necessitated me opening the crates labelled “oil paints” to find supplies for us to play with. I found a palette with dried-up oil paint on it in my plein-air box; I must have thought I would go out with it again soon the last time I used it because I used to be meticulous in cleaning it if I wasn’t. Two-and-a-half years** later, and a lot of tears under the bridge of life, I sat on the floor remembering Alistair’s joy at my being so enthusiastic about my new “proper” plein-air box that I went out in with it in winter day after day*, and added more tears to that river.
Another crate had oil painting things he’d bought when we lived in London: that little two cup solvent/medium holder you clip to a palette (which to me is more like a “spill me now” container), a tube of cerulean blue, some quality brushes (he always took better care of his brushes than I do). Memories of the art materials shops in London we could never not go into. How when I was heading to meet him at the computer college on Tottenham Court Road where he taught on Saturdays, I would get off the bus early to walk the route past the Winsor & Newton shop, then the Daler Rowney, with an occasional diversion to Cornelissens (though that shop intimidated me for years as a place that was only for “real artists”).
I sorted out supplies that weren’t so emotive, and got to share the joy of manipulating paint that doesn’t dry in a hurry. I played around with a palette knife, orange, violet, blue, yellow, and white. This was the result (with the edges trimmed):
Looking at it now, my mind sees a bright sun, and I am reminded how Alistair would, with a wicked grin, readily spout paragraphs of artspeak given a little encouragement. Something about light emerging from the darkness, hope growing from mixed emotions articulated in the complex colour mixing of the artist, circularity of life evident in the brushwork of the yellows contrasting with the linear depiction of the timeline of the dark.
*See My First Steps with Plein-Air Oils.
**Dated by photos I took.
***My friend’s post on her Instagram
I loved Cornellisens and found the staff to always be very friendly. I was at St Martins, not so far away in Charing Cross Rd.
Friendly and knowledgeable, and they don’t quiz you to check your credentials on entering the shop, it was just my insecurities! 🤣 When I learnt traditional etching on copper and wanted to buy my own etching tool, it’s where I headed. Sure enough, out came a drawer at the back full of options.
Sometimes the doing (opening up those shut away paints and feelings) and remembering (the places you both went to buy art ‘stuff’), brings forth strong images of what was and then of what would have been…and when tears come (whether we want them or not), it is a release of sorts, no ?
I would have written some similar artspeak here, Marion – no need though, as you’ve written what it could have been. And, I see hope and love…
It is a release of sorts, and a reminder of love and shared moments. It’s the unexpectedness of what triggers tears and what doesn’t that’s hard to navigate, and I have learnt to simply roll with emotions and try to lean into the love.