Art; my Lifelong Lover

I load my brush with paint and bring it to the canvas, hearing that familiar sound—scratching, full of motion and vigor, though the surface remains smooth to the eye. No image yet, just a background, one that captures the tone of my mood. And in that moment, I remember. Art is my lover. She keeps me balanced, keeps me sane. She waits in the wings, patient, though I often abandon her. The life of an artist is too unstable. Yet, what I recall now is how my paintings have taken me places. They carried me to Paris, Brussels, Ghent, Amsterdam, London, Edinburgh, Venice, and even Rome. They funded my stay in Copenhagen. When I moved to Squamish, they helped pay my rent—my landlord borrowing my work for property showings.

I once thought I was one of the lucky few, chosen to fall in love with art and have it support me financially forever. I thought people would always want to buy my paintings, as they always had. They sold effortlessly, from wherever I was. But when they don’t fly off the shelves like hotcakes, I turn to other things and find myself unhappy. Yet when I return to the canvas, I am reminded of what I’ve been missing. It fills me. Art is everything I need. It feels like a lover, a cosmic dance—like I am the galaxy, creating new life, fully content in the moment.

And I know that once the painting is finished and the process complete, I’ll want it to leave me—to find a home, to be loved by someone else so that I can begin again. I’ll stay in my bliss, creating new worlds. My failure is not in the struggle with the result, nor in whether the painting hangs on my walls or yours—whether you love it and make it yours. That is conditional love, and I strive to transcend it, because my soul calls for it.

Alright. Back to the canvas. She calls me...