Finding Order in Creativity; a Foray with Monet
Giverny is that way! I announced, pointing for emphasis to the highway sign announcing the next exit. This was something of a controversial finger-point because we were on our way home. Our holidays involve meandering somewhat agendaless through some country or other, stopping when and where it suits us, and then one day we wake up, and we go home. Straight home. Because we all know, when the holiday is over, it’s over. Diverting to Giverny didn’t suit the pattern, but I had a defence for my detour. Heading into Normandy and Brittany two weeks earlier, I supplied my list of stops: Mont Saint Michel, and Monet’s home in Giverny. We diverted.
The art of painting was never on my radar, but one day Arthur arrived home on an artsy whim with paints and brushes, and our Dutch household took to slopping brightly coloured acrylic onto canvas. I was mystified by the activities taking place in what used to be the kitchen and sat back watching. Not a chance! I declared when encouraged to join the mess, I had not read the guidebook to painting, and my last art lesson was in kindergarten. To understand my escapades with creativity, it would help to know that I work in accounting, and much of my life revolves around staying within the lines and keeping to tidy, uncompromising conclusions. I tried to shun the chaos and feigned disinterest. But, I had to admit, it did look like fun.
So, I signed myself up for a two-day, seven-step painting course, the final step something like, walk away and let it bother you. This was a whole new frontier for me. When I arrived at the community hall with a large blank canvas under my arm I was nervous, but a formulated approach seemed like something I could trust. I had no idea what to expect, but I guessed I’d be heading home with something Mondrianesque, a few brightly coloured shapes carefully defined by straight black lines, something loosely resembling a spreadsheet. But, what resulted, still hangs in my kitchen 11 years later. My painting is a colourful depiction of my favourite village in Italy and creating it was the closest thing to magic that I have experienced. I was delighted and fascinated by the creative process. And I had fun!
I wish I could tell you I’ve become a prolific painter, but while I’ve gone on to finish a few paintings over the years, I have far more half-finished canvases lodged in the closets of my world. Control creeps in with his side-kick, Frustration, and the magic falls away. It’s only a painting for goodness sake! Walk away! My instructor’s words ring persistently in my ears.
Still, everything about the art continues to fascinate me, mainly because I find it so hard, and the masters make it look so easy. I visit the galleries, searching out the works of my favourite painters; Vermeer, Van Gogh, Monet. You may have seen me at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam setting off the alarm bells as I lean in a little too close to examine the brush-strokes, and inadvertently cross the invisible red line. Bronk! Bronk! Bronk! The attendants come running. Me again, I say sheepishly, whoops! I stare at the little things. How did the artist make that silver candlestick shimmer? Ohhhh, he used yellow and blue. How perfect are the folds in that white dress, yet look, there is no white paint on the canvas. So, when I had the opportunity to visit Monet’s home and his famous gardens, I wasn’t going to miss it.
I walked through the front door and went straight to his studio. Warm sunlight streamed through the huge windows. So much light! I stood in the warmth, breathing in any remnant of painterly energy, and then meandered through the rest of the rooms at my own pace. No invisible barriers here, no alarm bells, just a welcoming home. All of the contents belonged to Claude and Alice; the beds and bureaus, the clocks and kitchen-wares. Replica paintings line the walls just as the originals had during his lifetime. Degas, Pissarro, Renoir. His Impressionist buddies. It was more a visit to the Monet’s than a museum.
I left the house through the kitchen door and sauntered through the front gardens, noticing that while the flower-beds appeared to be whimsical and unconstrained, they were laid out with a strong sense of order. Small rectangular flower-beds contained blocks of colours; varied reds here; yellows over there; purples across the path. Everything fit onto a larger grid, comprising what looked suspiciously like a spreadsheet. Order amidst the creativity! I could appreciate this.
Feeling even more akin to Mr. Monet, it was time to find his ponds. More than a hundred years ago, he convinced the town-council to divert a stream onto his property, and then he dammed it to create a small lake. I pushed through some folliage, rounded a bend in the path and walked smack into Lily-Pad central. Whoa! I knew this place. We all know this place; the Japanese bridge arching over dark water; willows weeping down, framing every view with soft, leafy edges; a narrow row-boat drawn up on the shore, and lily-pads floating in perfect picturesque. A pale green palette blocked the world from view, filling every periphery, and there I was, transported into the middle of his canvas. Perhaps, I thought, it’s time to dust off my canvases and try again.
I have just signed myself up for a one-day painting course.
Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape and tap the pic on mobile) to see some pictures of my escapades with creativity.
