Contrast Balance Harmony

Preface: The preface is the whole picture in this case. This evening I told my parents that I'm literally battling writer's block, horribly, and not because I don't have ideas. I don't have words yet. Then, they asked me what I'm supposed to blog about right now. I said, "a picture...with harmony and balance" and my dad said something like, "that's interesting you said those two words, that's exactly what they use to describe something something of a car, "the harmonic balancer is connected to the crankshaft to balance the engine to keep it running true". His version made sense, but I died, I was like oh my heck, my professor is enamored with cars so.. I was overjoyed at the connection. And then, my Momma started up. Oh Bette, I have the perfect picture for you to use. I kid you not she recommended a watercolor painting of HERSELF. My gracious, my jaw dropped. The gall of this woman, I was like Mom......
Okay, but we really do have a watercolor painting of her, and it is currently leaned up against the wall, but she has every intention to hang it in the entryway of our home. The entryway, it might as well be on our front door, or above the fireplace. It's the Mona Lisa of Santa Clara....
Lemme back up though, my Mom traveled to Paris last year. In the Bohemian district, Montmartre to be exact, on a street about a Kilometer from the Moulin Rouge, she had a street painter approach her. Peddling in Europe is constant, but in this particular area of Paris these 'starving artists' aren't starving artists, they have the right to set up where they are based on heritage and prestige and it's an honor for them to spend the day on the street painting. Local law enforcement doesn't try to shoo these painters away, and they don't haggle them for work/street permits. An artist touched my Mom's cheek and said, I have never seen this color before. My mom is Native American, this wasn't a line, he probably really never had seen her skin color before. He sat her down and started painting her, a crowd formed and everyone broke out in applause when he finished. He then took a photo of the painting, and said I have to make another one of these, I will replicate it best I can. He told her she had to have it framed in a black simple frame with white matting so it wouldn't take away from the portrait. Luckily, my dad frames photos in his spare time as a hobby, this man must of just known. After this discussion, my Mom tried to pay him for the painting and he kept refusing. Finally, my mom got him to accept forty euros and told him to go have a drink. He then painted my Mom's travel companion's son for one hundred euros.
I want brownie points so I'm choosing to appease my Momma and write about harmony on her face.

The curve of every line is so constant, and steady even. I love all the areas that are white, because my mind completes the portrait. Varying thin lines with thick bold strokes somehow look fluid. The watermark imperfections are my favorite element because they add to the balance by throwing it off, like the artist didn't try too hard, he just felt. His hand guided him, or his heart, instead of his brain trying to be precise. I really appreciate the imperfections because my Mom is flawless, it is incredible to see this portrayal of her face. Bottom line, my Mom is a vision through and through, exotic, ethnic, and regal. The blend of colors is so soft, and purposeful. I think you tell this artist is not American, there's something different in his craft and I'm envious of his skill. His dimension is unique, he captured where light falls genuinely. The law of closure helps my mind complete this portrait, I even knew what scarf my Mom was wearing before I saw all the behind the scene photos. The visual distinction in hue and contrast are stunning because of how well it all worked, and the knowledge that he did this in a short timeframe, on the street. Pretty special. And no worries, I'm going to like get some humble pie to my Mom ASAP or stat whichever you prefer.

Visceral: "How Beauty Feels"

Sometimes I dread sensitivity. There have been moments in time, where I have craved not crying. I hate to admit but every now and then I am jealous of Meursault. I know the whole point of the novel is that being detached is not something that simplifies his life. It complicates it in a petrifying way. Still, I am secretly envious, I think I feel that white hot burning feeling that flashes in your chest right before tears well up, too often. Sometimes I beg myself not to pay attention to a pretty prayer, or make eye contact with someone delivering powerful sentences. I hate that I ever feel this desire to not react.


My tenderheartness, or tenderheartmess, as I like to call it, is just fine. Why is crying so bad? It's involuntary for goodness sake. I cannot help it, I promise you.


The path to waterworks is chalk full of opportunity when it comes to me, but here are a few examples.


How do I feel beauty?

This painting, is brilliantly the epitome of beauty. There's hardly a comparison for me.This impactful preservation of history is incomprehensible on multiple levels. Before someone painted this, someone described it. I can't even tell you what I would give to hear people who were there illustrate this moment, did they have any idea what they were describing? Did they know that America would become America? These questions fire off in my mind, there's something so transcendent about reverence during chaos. The calm before the storm, the calm during the storm, the calm after the storm. I guess I love storms.

There was genius behind this act of medium, I want to believe it wasn't calculated like so many creations are these days. I want to believe it was sincerely about the stunning simplicity of a military man on bended knee, searching for answers or hope or courage or strength or whatever. I hope this was an artist's whim, like "let me see if I can convey this moment" "let me speak to the souls that see this painting", not "watch me weaken knees over military and God". That's a cheap shot and we all know it, this country is programmed for patriotism, we are supposed to care about all military affiliated things, it's a good way to get famous and recognized. (says the girl with a military blog)
I could research the artist, I could better understand every step that led George Washington to this moment, but I would much rather stare at this image, and get lost. Like I do everytime. I want to glance at that beam of sunlight over and over again, til my eyes unfocus, and I want my hands to fold in that exact same way whenever they are not busy.

Ready for number two?
I cannot not shed a tear during the National Anthem, it is a familiar sound associated with good and bad for me and I never know which chord of melody is going to spark my tear ducts. It changes every time. I'm tranced during those four minutes and if I could tell you where I go during it, I would, I would tell every person I ever meet.

Christ. Believe what you will, PLEASE, but do not ignore the idea of someone hanging on a cross. I'd never wish that on my worst enemy. I writh in pain just thinking about it and my throat turns dry, camels are walking through my mouth kicking up dusty sand. Unbelievable, unjust, and the magnitude of pain is not even feasible in my mind. I also have a deaf older sister, this picture has hung in her room ever since I can remember. I'm certain she and Christ have the most perfect hands,what her hands and what Christ's hands do/done, astonishing. Watching her sign will melt the coldest most brisk heart. No doubt.

Watching my babysister play basketball is a gift, it's so pretty to me. She plays with her heart and there's nothing cooler.

Trees make me emotional. I wonder if I've always been that way. But my gracious, they fascinate me. I could stare at them all day, to the point of drooling, and I despise spit. That is how much I love them. Maybe it's because I grew up in a hurricane prone environment, early on I recognized their strength by their damage sometimes. Or, it could be because my grandpa always has a barn full of woodtools that always turned trees into something. Those somethings were often gifted to my family and kept in our home to make us feel closer to my grandpa. I can ask him to make me anything. Big thanks to trees for that. Does the shape make them beautiful, or does what I associate them with make me appreciate and covet them more?

There's a tremendous possibility that I misinterpreted this assignment, I know I was supposed to talk about lines and hues and logistics. I talked purely on feeling, but I wanted to talk moreso about feeling beauty and the way it spills out for me.