Art With a Message by Roberta McReynolds

Page Three of Art With a Message

One man explained he would write, "A letter how past actions had negative effects on the Earth, lessons on what not to do, and advice on how people should be kinder to each other."

His wife simply wrote, "No regrets." She had completed her final cancer treatment the day before and was celebrating the first day of the rest of her life. This stranger and I parted with a tearful hug of understanding: strangers no more.

"One large pepperoni pizza for delivery," came from a hungry visitor. Sounds like a reasonable, practical request if you’re stranded on an island. I think my husband would be in agreement with that order, with extra cheese and crushed red pepper.

Another person advised, "Live life to the fullest!"

"Never look back. Go through the door: adventure waits on the other side," a woman added to my notebook.

A sweet couple I know, who recently reached their 40th wedding anniversary, added their meditative thoughts. Oscar chose to write to his wife, Becky, "Thinking of you, my darling. We have lived life to the fullest – with no regrets. Thanks for everything — wouldn’t change a thing!"

Becky took a philosophical approach, "I wonder where this bottle started, how many miles it traveled, what does the note say? Love note? Note of someone’s journey, or was it just left there by two lovers celebrating?"

The image of a message in a bottle emerging on my canvas fostered a connection with the inner thoughts and feelings of others: priceless reflections at the end of a tiring day. I decided that I would send my own message back in time to myself, as often as needed, "Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right."

Ten hours after I secured a blank canvas onto a wire display grid, it was time to leave. I was dreading the prospect of multiple trips to my car and was determined to make only one expedition. The folding chair has straps attached so it can be carried like a backpack. I don't usually carry it that way, but if I wanted to get out in a single pass, it was unavoidable. I looked like I was getting ready to scale Mt. Everest.

My large portfolio with four canvases packed inside hung by a large strap over my left shoulder. I carried two 18"x18" interlocking floor mats in one arm, crammed between the portfolio and my ribcage. The mats are designed to provide relief for feet and legs while standing on hard surfaces. I would have died without them and, as it was, I still felt crippled by the end of the day. My free hand was used to drag my utility cart along behind me. It was loaded to the max with supplies; paint, brushes, purse, camera, and I’m beginning to think there was a layer of bricks in the bottom, too. Are you getting the mental picture? I desperately needed a pack mule....

I plodded along down the street with my head down, resembling a weary pack animal on the dusty trail. The folding chair was riding up too high and kept bumping the back of my head. Thinking back, I wonder if I had the chair strapped on upside-down? Each step hurt my feet and shins. Some enterprising company should consider making shoes out of those foam floor mats. I couldn’t wait to get home and plunge my swollen feet up to the ankles in cool water for relief.

Ironically, after getting home and soaking those achy feet, I poured out the pan of water in the kitchen sink and was shuffling back to the sofa when I stubbed the toes of my left foot on the cat’s scratching post. Besides the ‘thump’ all my husband heard from my lips was a weak whimper. I didn’t even have the energy to think of a suitable four-letter word for the occasion.

There must be a message here. Aren’t artists expected to suffer for their creativity?

Return to Page Two, Page One<<