Page Two of Art With a Message
The family returned later in the day and sat nearby where they could enjoy some live music. Libby and Sara (not their real names) had more crafts to show me and I put aside my brushes to take some time to compliment the choice of colors and splatter technique. This was met with two beaming faces and appreciative looks from their parents.
"We try to encourage them and be supportive of their efforts with art," commented their father.
"I absolutely agree. You never know where a promising artist will get her start."
I walked back to my project and before long the older girl was standing next to me, still within sight of her parents. Both parents checked several times to make sure Libby wasn't bothering me. Well, she was a bit, but I was enjoying it all the same. The girl was standing so close to me that I felt the need to caution her that she might end up with paint in her hair.
Prompted by their younger daughter coming over to get her share of attention, the mother and father located a pair folding chairs, set them up a couple feet behind me and ordered the girls to sit down. That worked about as long as it took for the parents to turn their backs. (Can’t really blame the children: they know those chairs aren’t comfortable as well as I do.)
The lid of my palette tray was resting upside-down on top of my utility cart. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and saw the girls each drop a dime in it the same way you might tip a street performer. Well, that was sure a first for me.
The five-year-old asked what I was going to buy with my twenty cents and I explained to her that I wasn't going to spend the dimes at all, because they were more precious to me as a reminder of the two of them. Sara doubled checked with me several times to make sure I hadn’t changed my mind about that.
Eventually I ended up painting with a little blonde head tucked under each arm. The novelty of looking like a mother hen, minus the feathers, wore thin while I was attempting to channel my creativity. Thankfully the parents intervened on my behalf and said it was time to leave.
The ice cream store across the street also challenged my ability to keep focused, even though the image I was working on appeared refreshing. (I confess to patronizing the establishment more than once.)
I had decided on painting a long, horizontal seascape seen from a low angle with long, late afternoon shadows. Wet sand in the foreground cradled a bottle washed up on the shoreline and inside the corked bottle was a rolled up, weathered piece of paper.
The concept intrigued me with the mystery of what was written on the note and how it might affect the imagination of others. Attendees who seemed interested in watching me for a few minutes became participants. I asked them baited questions about the message in the bottle and invited people to write down what they would slip into the sealed glass container before tossing it out into the waves.
