From the Artist's Notebook
by anne bevan

“Mommy, you must have magic eyes—everything you see is beautiful!” . . .

How old was he? Four? Six? I can’t remember. And what was it I was showing him? Sunshine dancing in the trees? A patch of wild strawberries hidden in the weeds? Or the silvery trail of a slug? I can’t remember. It was just a passing moment on an ordinary day—one of a seemingly endless tumble of days full of children, activities and conversation. Like all experience, it happens and, just as quickly, is over. We went on to other things—Tonka toys, no doubt, tuna fish sandwiches, boys take a nap, mommy does the dishes . . . the laundry . . . scrubs the kitchen floor. . .But decades later, this moment remains in my heart as I remember the wonder on his face and in his voice.

In his innocence he opened a door into something that has taken me years to understand.Two separate conversations recently have caused me to reconsider the relationship between seeing and painting, between experience and art. In the first, I was asked a simple question, “What is plein air painting?” (The difference between studio painting and plein air is akin to the difference between Makarova dancing Swan Lake and James Cagney tapping his legs off in Yankee Doodle Dandy, or swimming fifty laps in a heated pool to dashing naked into the ocean). In answering the question, I described how hard it is for me to travel by car from one place to another, because everywhere, everywhere, there is something beautiful, and I must pass hundreds, thousands of possibilities in the vistas or the details, the sun,the shadows, the fog, the drizzle, the colors, the wild abundance of it all or the gentle quietude. All of it, in each fleeting glance, everywhere, paintings begging to be realized. I expected my anecdote would be amusing, and was surprised when my dinner companion smiled, but said softly and very seriously —“I wish I could see that”.

The second conversation revolved around the relationship between the artist and the audience. If art is a form of communication, what exactly does an artist do? And if you are communicating non-verbally, what response can be expected? I have long believed that the best an artist can offer is an invitation to experience, the gentle question, “have you seen this?” Perhaps it will be something big, deep or profound. Or perhaps just a moment’s experience otherwise overlooked. (A few weeks ago, I was swinging down Rt 74 on my way to class at AB-Tech, when off to the side, a small dirt road and a cluster of red bud trees wildly giddy with color. Alas, no discipline at all: yes, I skipped class. Is it the world’s best little painting? Certainly not, but for some time that evening I was intensely alive and intensely in love with the red bud trees.) And maybe, if you are not feeling mad with joy at the beauty of it all when you drive down the road, maybe that’s the job of an artist. Red buds flower and are gone in a few short days. That evening came once, and never again.

Art is our memory of love. The most an artist can do through their work is say, let me show you what I have seen, what I have loved, and perhaps you will see it and love it too.