The Artist

I sometimes sketched very well—at least that was the reason I had enrolled in the sessions. Due to mom’s urging, I began taking a class from an ancient lady in a forgettable part of town, even back in those days. Mom paid for the course, and my biggest decision was whether to go on Thursday nights or Saturday mornings. I opted for the mornings and arrived on that first day to find that I was the only one in the room that could not be considered a septuagenarian. My fellow artists-in-training, sweet but hardly docile ladies they were, did their utmost to embarrass the shy teen-aged boy thrust among them on the weekend morning—but I doubt today if it was out of spite.

They sipped their coffees and painted with chained glasses pulled low on their noses, and I did my best to fade into the background after getting my supplies from my venerable teacher. I sat before an easel in the back corner, and stared at a blank canvas while waiting for inspiration. Over the idle gossip of my indigenous compatriots, a scene formed in my mind; a small creek flowing through an autumn forest, peaceful and serene. Nothing at all like I felt at the moment, but I had to start somewhere. I took out a brush and began to draw.

“No!” My wrist was softly grabbed, and the room became silent as all eyes appeared to be turned in my direction. The instructor took the brush from my hand and set it back in the tray. She began to explain things that someone out of touch with art beyond pen and ink could not comprehend. She showed me how to spread linseed oil on the canvas, rubbing it in with a cloth until the entire surface glistened. Then she advised me to take a dark pencil and sketch in the scene, much as I was used to doing on my own. Once a rough sketch of my forest thoughts were depicted, we were ready for color. Under her guidance, I began at the corners, using darker colors to draw attention to the lighter center of the picture. She showed me the correct brush strokes, and when I could not reproduce her masterful form, she moved me from the seat and demonstrated the required inflections for me with her own gnarled hands—then eagerly watched over my shoulder as I repeated the task. When the two-hour session ended, we rubbed in more linseed oil and draped the canvas with a soft cloth, keeping it safe for my next visit the following Saturday.

Over the weeks that followed, the white oil-covered sailcloth became the forest scene I had envisioned, and it turned out well for a first painting. Over the months that followed, I painted many more scenes and despite my youth, I actually enjoyed the company of my blue-haired classmates. Of course, at school or around my peers I would always profess to be taking “industrial art” at the college annex. Face it, in the world of fifteen-year-old boys, producing an oil painting will never be located on the list of epitomes required for being cool.

I continued the class until after-school jobs and school activities, as well as funding, put an eventual halt to my budding career as a painter. I have no regrets, yet no desire to pursue it once more at this later stage of my life. There is something about painting a picture from your mind—creating an image only you can envision, that fulfills the desires of your heart and stimulates your thought processes. But it is also a lot of work and expense, and requires a voracious commitment from a would-be artist to do so. I draw schematics and diagrams on a computer these days, and for me it is enough to simply be as creative as possible in that regard.

In the beginning, G_d took His brush in front of a blank canvas upon which would become our world. Using a closely related technique to what I learned many eons later, He started at the edges and painted from darkness to light. His brushstrokes were all made with tender care; with love and with distinction. Furthermore, they were perfect and He made them alone. “Thus saith the LORD, thy redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb, I am the LORD that maketh all things; that stretcheth forth the heavens alone; that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself;”

His glorious masterpiece also pointed to the center, to His greatest creation, namely you and I. With painstaking care, in thoughts unfathomable to our weak minds, He formed the first man from the dust of the earth and breathed His very own breath of life into him. Then He stepped back, observed what He had created, and pronounced it good.

Why He did so, I’ll never know. It is beyond me to comprehend it. The question has been debated through time and space by men much better than I. But more so, the story does not end with the showpiece of creation or an understanding for the divine reasoning behind it. G_d went a step further, performing a wonderfully marvelous and totally unexpected feat during the process—He painted Himself into the picture! The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Immanuel.

His story, His design for me and my life (as well as mankind in general) is gripping and passionate. When the world with all of its cares gets me down and life no longer makes any sense at all, it’s then that I remember the Master Artist:

The One who loves His most precious creation so much that He offers to become a part of their lives, if only they will accept Him.