It has been while since I last attempted to recount for you the progress on the mural. My excuse for neglecting the blog was initially a legitimate one – the holidays and all that. Christmas here in Raleigh, then a delightful trip to Ocracoke Island to share New Year’s with dear friends and their family. And I will cling to at least a portion of that prevarication. But in truth, the larger issue is that I have been more than a little overwhelmed by it all. Three seemingly unrelated narratives wind through my current reflections. Let me share them with you and then try to explain how they are related.
First, is an iconic rural story about the farm boy whose favorite heifer finally gives birth to her first calf. However, as is often the case in these situations, the little one is sickly, and the first-time mother less-than-adept. Well, the lad bottle feeds the tike and takes to carrying the little critter around with him, so he can keep an eye on her. She’s just a mite of a thing and he is strong. And so it goes for weeks. Come autumn, the neighbors are amazed to see the lad casually moving about the farm while carrying a strapping, yearling shorthorn cow across his shoulders.
Second is the story of a colleague of mine who is an excellent golfer. I remember asking him if he had ever considered chasing the PGA star. He admitted that he had, until he had chanced, while in college, to play a round with a classmate who actually went on to play rather successfully on the tour for a number of years after graduation. During those few hours my colleague became painfully aware of the incredible gap between his best efforts and those of his friend, the future pro.
Finally, there is the well-known tale of Michelangelo and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor who occasionally did some painting. Pope Julius II saw him as the painter best suited to adorn the ceiling of PJ’s home church. Michelangelo got sucked in by the challenge and spent four years of his life, away from his beloved stone-cutting, painting immortal images for this pushy guy with a pointed hat.
As I watch Paul work on the mural, each of those stories echoes in my head at various times. The heifer story rings loudest when I remember the foyer wall of a couple weeks ago, featureless – your basic wall with a couple of distracting doors. And then I think about the snakes of blue tape crawling over the lines traced upon the wall and Paul “killing the white” with a tan base:
Then incrementally blocks of color appear intersecting with streaks of increasing definition:
And more dabs appear, tying those streaks together until they became tree and branch, leaf and sky that spread like Spring across the wall:
And then, more recently, they slowly resolve as though being “focused” and viewed through an old, pre-digital SLR camera:
Seems like that wall was a little baby calf just yesterday, where is this awesome, full-grown critter coming from?
Obviously the golf story comes into play as I realize I do not have the slightest idea how he makes it happen. I mean, I like to create my images, and I choose to believe that the pleasure they contribute moves beyond the immediate sphere of my own joy in creating them. But this is a whole different level of “game.” How do the lines morph into branches? How does flat become round? That whole “crooked places straight and rough places plain” thing? Paul explains patiently that the light is coming from the upper left so the dark values have to lie at the lower right of each branch, tree, or leaf, and then the lighter values round the object as you proceed to the upper left. “Of course,” I think. “And do you want fries with that?” Still, I understand a bit more each day.
Finally, the Sistine Chapel story sometimes strikes a bit too close to home. Last night as the four of us gathered again for dinner Paul did sigh and admit, “I wish I could get back to building my guitars.” Despite the fact that we had all spent time discussing the possible perils to our friendship that lay in his undertaking the task, I still felt a bit like the pompous Pope who just wanted a cool ceiling. This morning, however, we talked and he admitted that the pressure to get the mural "just right" came from within:
“I am cursed,” he admitted, “by knowing what I am capable of, and, once started, I cannot stop until I have achieved that.”
"Hmmm," mutters my evil twin. "Step into my chapel, please, this will just take a minute . . . ."
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