Colors of the Past

 

Scarlet bleeding into Persimmon

I was rummaging through the shed, tossing aside old pots, broken handled garden shovels, and

 leftover bits of string too short for the weed eater, when my eyes lit upon a small basket with some colored bottles inside. My grandmother's watercolors. For thirty years they have been languishing in the garage/storage/junk piles, as we moved around from house to house. I had known they were out here, and had been thinking about them recently, since I had made a pledge to learn, really learn, some watercolor techniques. I LOVE watercolor. I'm just not that great at it. I would like to be better. 

These paints had been around as long as I could remember. Before the thirty years they spent in my garage, they spent about thirty years between my Grandmommy and my Aunt, who gave them to her for her birthday, sometime in the late sixties or early seventies. By the time I knew them, it was about 1975 or 1976. They were still fairly new looking, then. I loved the rubber stoppers, and the bright colors. My three favorites being  Chartreuse, Scarlet, and Persimmon. As long as I have lived, since then, I have never forgotten that name, Chartreuse or the bright vivid hue of green in the bottle. When I remember it, it is always with a wash (pun intended) of pleasure at the memory of art time with Auntie, with the WI-FI record player belting out the Pioneer Jesus music in the background. Did I mention how much I love that, as well? It's all just one glorious wave of creative memory, with a soundtrack of Jesus to tie it all together. Even these days, sometimes I will just sit in the office and create. Not just watercolor, but anything, from Christmas ornaments, to working on my Paint by Number, or even just wrapping presents. I turn on the old music, which I have inherited from my Aunt, and have right here at my fingertips, and lose myself for awhile. The peace is literally, out of this world. But I digress. Back to those paints.

So, inside the shed, I grabbed the basket and brought it into the house. It was covered in grime. The paint stoppers had mostly melted in the thirty years of Texas summer heat. The bottles were dirty and dry. There weren't many left. Chartreuse was gone, but I was delighted to see my old friends Scarlet and Persimmon among the survivors. I was slightly ashamed that I had let them get to this state, although to be fair, the bottles had already been empty when I inherited them. I had kept them simply because I am sentimental at heart. I couldn't bear to throw them away. 

I cleaned off the basket and used it for something else. I set the paints with all my other watercolors, mostly kid's paints, from Walmart, on the desk and got busy with other things. Weeks went by.

Today was a day I had nothing to do. Well, not things I wanted to do, anyway. I did some laundry, cooked a couple of meals, cleaned up. But mostly sat in my chair, watching Youtube videos. 

But suddenly I had had enough of doing nothing. I grabbed my phone and googled those paints. Can you still buy them? Why yes, yes you can! But they are kind of pricey. I was tickled to see Chartreuse in the set that Amazon (who knew?!!)  sells, for just an arm and a leg. 

I decided to have a little fun. 

I went into the office and got out the paints. I put them carefully on a paper plate. I then, even more carefully loosed the rubber and plastic stoppers on the paints. Some of them, sadly, could not be removed. I saved those for a later day. I then went into the bathroom and very, very, carefully, began to add a bit of water to the tiny jars. 

It was ridiculous, the childlike delight I felt, as the colors welled up in the bottles.  Unlike the Crayola, and Prang colors I had been using, or even the tubes I sometimes used,  these had an unusual depth and richness. 

I got out a scratch watercolor paper, and experimented for awhile, delighting in my ability to bring something I thought was dead back to life. The colors were so vibrant, despite the lost years they spent in the garage.  I had never seen a watercolor red as red as the Scarlet, and all I was doing was just dabbling. My brain was full of the possibilities, as I stood in the  office, watching the late afternoon sun set the bottles ablaze with a rainbow of colors. I can already see myself painting something floral with that Red of Reds. I can't wait to get started. 

I have been passing on the love of art time with my Baby Grands,  ages 6 and 8, and admittedly, no longer babies. We have been painting since they were old enough to handle a paint brush. I have pictures of Arya at two years old, painting a masterpiece, hair held back, Beary the ever present bear, securely at her side. She woke me up at six thirty the other morning, asking if we could do art. You gotta love a girl who wants to do art at the crack of dawn. 

We have learned some life lessons in the art room. Claire gets frustrated at herself if her picture isn't perfect. She parroted back at me, my own words the other day, when I made a mistake. ."There aren't any mistakes in art, Grandma". I have been teaching her well, I guess, and she is hearing me. For a six year old, there shouldn't be any mistakes in art. Nothing is perfect. Work with what you think are mistakes and carry on. It might work out after all. Or start over. But don't get upset. They are both naturals. They have a love of color, and a wealth of imagination. Sometimes they paint monsters. Sometimes, they paint flowers. Sometimes, it's planets. Most days there is at least one rainbow in the bunch. 

I put on the Jesus music, usually at the request of Claire, who will also tell you in the next breath, I LOVE Jesus! You gotta love a girl who loves Jesus, and is not afraid to say so. We go through a record or two, and a few watercolor pages or so, and then we are off on another adventure. But in the interim, 

I have given them a little piece of myself, as we sing to the Lord, or in Arya's case, dance to the Lord. 

But more important than giving them a little piece of Grandma, I hope I have given them a bigger piece to the mystery that is God, as we listen, and sing and dance, and talk. That they will take away an understanding of who He is. And that they will always look back on this time with delight, even as I look back with delight at my artful beginnings. 

It's in my blood, this, and I think my blood just might have a drop of Chartreuse green in it.