| "There's a long-distance loneliness rolling | | | | The otherworldly feelings of space |
| out over the desert floor." So croons Jackson | | | | exploration and interplanetary travel sparked |
| Browne in "The Fuse". With this painting of | | | | the very core of my childhood as I gazed |
| emotion, the pen becomes the brush, the mind | | | | upon, no, as I gazed into the pictures spread |
| is the canvas. With but one line, a picture | | | | before my young mind. Anywhere I wanted to |
| is painted. More than a picture, a feeling is | | | | go, pictures took me light years away. Anyone |
| painted. "A long-distance loneliness." It's | | | | I wanted to be, pictures made it so. If it |
| beautiful, it's immense, and it's depressing | | | | could be transferred to canvas, or paper, or |
| all at once. | | | | board, or glass from the mind of an artist, I |
| | | | was there! |
| It's a challenge when one attempts to resolve | | | | |
| the dilemma of the greater of two artists: | | | | But where can the visual artist take me that |
| the one whose canvas is transformed with the | | | | the writer cannot? Is it enough to paint the |
| brush, and the other, who uses words to stir | | | | cave in the shadows? Does the visual artist |
| the senses. | | | | take me into the cave, or does my own |
| | | | imagination? In the scene of the cabin in the |
| When I was a child, I could examine picture | | | | woods, surrounded by a winter wonderland, do |
| books for hours on end, imagining I was there | | | | I feel the warmth of the fire because of the |
| on the pages, in the story, one of the | | | | light I see in the window and the smoke |
| characters. I was three inches high as I | | | | emanating from the chimney? Does my mind take |
| scooted into the little mouse hole in the | | | | me there and supply the warmth? |
| wall. There I would take refuge with my | | | | |
| friend, the mouse. There we were safe from | | | | Does the painting on the canvas move my |
| the cat, safe from the elements outside, on | | | | psyche? Is it true that I need to have |
| the little couch, in the little home in the | | | | experienced warmth to imagine it? Do I need |
| wall. | | | | to know snow to feel the cold? Is it the |
| | | | viewer who brings the canvas to life, or the |
| I was the cowboy in the fort, the Indian in | | | | artist? |
| the canoe, the army man in the foxhole. I was | | | | |
| a giant, walking through the sea, able to | | | | So to the visual artist, and I am one myself, |
| touch the ocean floor. Sloshing to the shore, | | | | I say paint the cold without showing me the |
| I owned the city as I trekked through the | | | | snow. Then paint the warmth of the cozy fire |
| streets, using cars for my own personal toys. | | | | in the cabin without showing me the fire. |
| | | | Paint the wet of the waterfall and the depth |
| As I grew, pictures brought on different | | | | of the valley and the height of the mountain. |
| feelings. I felt sadness, romance, and | | | | Yes, the visual artist can do these things |
| elation. That magnificent painting of the | | | | and more! |
| waterfall with the calm pool beneath, took me | | | | |
| away. I put myself into the picture, | | | | But the dilemma remains, canvas or pen. How |
| drenching myself in the icy water, hiding | | | | does the visual artist paint the |
| behind the massive liquid sheet, falling | | | | "long-distance loneliness rolling out over |
| asleep in the sunlit afternoon on the bank of | | | | the desert floor?" |
| the sandy shore by that waterfall. | | | | |
| | | | How indeed? |