I’m a writer only because I can’t be an artist. There are so many pictures in my mind that are just waiting to be drawn or painted. Yet, when I put pencil to paper, all that comes out are words. Don’t get me wrong; they are wonderful words which taste so delicate on my tongue when read out loud. But there is no color in them. There is no immediate reaction to them of “Wow. That is beautiful”. Instead you need to spend time with the words letting them sit there on the paper streaming into your eyes before you can see how lovely they can be. This is why I have always preferred reading words out loud because at least then they are akin to music.
But oh how I long to be able to draw and paint the portraits in my mind. For example, I have had this image constantly in my brain since Freshman year of high school. I read a story in English class about a man who sees a woman and proceeds to have a daydream about her. To make a poem or piece of writing about it seems trivial. After all, it has already been put well in words. However, this short story has left me with this image which repeats itself in my brain every September.
The image is this: A pale woman wearing a grey wool pencil skirt with a white blouse. She has her hair pulled back in a bun and is wearing a red hat. She has delicate makeup besides red lipstick. In my mind her hair is always either blonde or brunette (my mind seems unable to decide which is more appropriate). She is always reading a book and leaning against a tree. There is a granite brick wall behind her with dark green ivy crawling on it. Sometimes she is eating an apple or there is an apple somewhere in the image.
For some reason this image sticks with me throughout the years. I think it is because it’s my ideal for me. It is as if I see her as this perfect woman. This is really why I would love to be an artist; In order to give this woman (this snapshot) I created in my mind a true form.