ARTiculation: The swaying mind of Georgia O'Keeffe
She sits behind a desk, bobbing her right
foot up and down like a brush into a pot of
paint. Fluidly and rhythmically, she let the
slow, pendular motion become the
metronome that paced her day dream. She
dreamt in full colour, letting the flowers in
the field bleed bright, saturated crimson and
iris violet. Her eyes closed lightly as her
neck began to crane left, and then right, to
the sway of the grass in her field. She imagined
she were sitting cross-legged amongst
the honeysuckles, feeling their texture,
inhaling the light scent of nature. She
exhaled, lifted her brush, and sweetened the
crisp, white canvas with a wisp of pink. And
then yellow and bl—
“But I can't draw a horse, Miss O!” She flittered her eyes open to the sound of one of her students. She stood, walked over to the young boy, bent down and began to explain the instructions.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She was 10 and had never picked up a brush when she decided she wanted to be an artist. She had to be an artist, she declared at a hulking dinner table in rural Wisconsin. Her parents found a local watercolorist to show her some techniques. From learning to blend colour in her living room, she went on to attend a few art schools, winning prizes and scholarships along the way. But she felt stifled by her regimented training, unable to establish her own form.
So she sat behind another desk, this time in front of a mass of young adults, seething to become the next sought-after talent of the art community, just as she had. She spoke about historical works, defining tone and texture and line and shape. She tepidly lifted her arm to students as they raised their hands, and answered questions like she was the course book. Between points, the tips of her fingers swept the top of the desk rhythmically, painting the dew-dropped grass yellow- green.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She met her husband when he showed some of her charcoal drawings at his gallery without her consent. She scorned him; he complimented her; they fell. A photographer and powerful force in the art community, her husband encouraged her to move to New York and paint, paint, paint. She created large-scale flowers, wishing to reveal the beauty of the world around us if we would take a moment to observe, feel. It wasn't long before everybody wanted to hang one of her soft, delicate paintings above their hearth. She was praised and heralded as a revolutionary: a celebrity. She made appearances, gave interviews.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She was 98 and as fragile as one of her dainty blossoms. Her slender fingers flicked through prints of her husband's portraits of her, she spoke. “When I look over the photographs [he] took of me — some of them more than 60 years ago — I wonder who that person is. It is as if in my one life I have lived many lives.” And she had: we all do. She's been all over her country, explaining, explaining, explaining, but one thing has remained constant for her:
Her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
“But I can't draw a horse, Miss O!” She flittered her eyes open to the sound of one of her students. She stood, walked over to the young boy, bent down and began to explain the instructions.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She was 10 and had never picked up a brush when she decided she wanted to be an artist. She had to be an artist, she declared at a hulking dinner table in rural Wisconsin. Her parents found a local watercolorist to show her some techniques. From learning to blend colour in her living room, she went on to attend a few art schools, winning prizes and scholarships along the way. But she felt stifled by her regimented training, unable to establish her own form.
So she sat behind another desk, this time in front of a mass of young adults, seething to become the next sought-after talent of the art community, just as she had. She spoke about historical works, defining tone and texture and line and shape. She tepidly lifted her arm to students as they raised their hands, and answered questions like she was the course book. Between points, the tips of her fingers swept the top of the desk rhythmically, painting the dew-dropped grass yellow- green.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She met her husband when he showed some of her charcoal drawings at his gallery without her consent. She scorned him; he complimented her; they fell. A photographer and powerful force in the art community, her husband encouraged her to move to New York and paint, paint, paint. She created large-scale flowers, wishing to reveal the beauty of the world around us if we would take a moment to observe, feel. It wasn't long before everybody wanted to hang one of her soft, delicate paintings above their hearth. She was praised and heralded as a revolutionary: a celebrity. She made appearances, gave interviews.
Her mind explaining, but her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
She was 98 and as fragile as one of her dainty blossoms. Her slender fingers flicked through prints of her husband's portraits of her, she spoke. “When I look over the photographs [he] took of me — some of them more than 60 years ago — I wonder who that person is. It is as if in my one life I have lived many lives.” And she had: we all do. She's been all over her country, explaining, explaining, explaining, but one thing has remained constant for her:
Her spirit swaying to the rhythm of her brushstrokes in the field.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
