consider, Janet Anderson, oil and acrylic on canvas A pine wooden box sits on my sister Sarah’s window sill. If I flipped it on its face, my rose-casted gold earrings and a stack of silver bangles might squeeze inside. Treasures I inherited after my grandmother died. But this box isn’t for holding. It stands upright with a painted pink-petaled flower print glossing the front. Sarah prefers it in portrait view. The flower at the top. I rotate it to landscape and notice the green buds shooting upward. Their almond-shaped heads fill the background, a mix of hard, soft, and fuchsia-cracked. Each one a promise of a flower to come. This box print is bright but small. Someone else owns the original on canvas and I consider how their eyes travel through and over it. I contemplate the moment-in-time these brushstrokes represent for Janet, the artist. For me, their story begins when she gives the print to a stranger. Art is often given this way. From the artist to an unknown buyer, who will attach new meaning and value to it, but money doesn’t enter this conversation. Janet simply says, “Chavon, add this to your sister’s birthday package” and I do, grateful. “Thank you. Thank you,” Sarah will exclaim with teary-joy after opening the surprise parcel, filled with books, candles, notes, small trinkets and one box print. “You’re welcome,” I reply unaware that this glossed image will also be a gift to me, months later, on a dark day. The kind of day where a single phone call cancels your evening plans and tomorrow’s work. The kind of day you stuff your notebook and a pile of laundry in an overnight bag. Did I even bring pants? Who cares! The kind of day, you drive three silent hours only to sit wordless on your sister’s couch beside your brother, your nieces and nephews and your parents. The kind of day when tasks like washing the dishes, baking chicken strips and McCain frozen fries, and volunteering for the corner-store-milk-purchase-drive are acts of courage. I try to entertain the kids, my sister has five, but how do you play when the sky is falling? It’s in the middle of this tension between grief and forced smiles that my eyes find the box. To be honest, I’m not an art critic and rarely do I stare mystically into paint and find deep inspiration. University-poster-sale-pictures cover my walls and a plastic framed crop of Wallhogs Klimpt’s “The Kiss” bought at age eighteen still hangs in my living room. Similarly, I’m cautious about claiming, “I heard God” because it’s so easy to hear and then stop listening. To misinterpret or to force a desired answer when daily life doesn't come with a Global Positioning System and a highlighted road map. I look out the window begging for relief but the yard, the dogs, and the stacked wood offer none. Instead, broken memories sink heavy in my gut and the past replays the same nightmare I’ve been trying to outrun and can’t. A numb fog descends and the only thing that pulls me out is the open flower, the grass, and the splitting buds. They are painted prayers. The prayers of friends from home. They are hope. The hope for healing in community. They are a simple kindness and a needed embrace. The box’s vibrant colour shines even as it blurs through pooling tears. As one day rolls over into the next, the gift becomes more than a lovely rendering--it’s a whisper and a promise. I hear, not audibly but in the way an unexpected thought arrives and won’t leave, the words: I go before you and am with you. I will never leave you nor forsake you. That’s it--two sentences--and it's enough. Briefly, I consider the cost of this box. The value a buyer might ascribe to its artistry. I wonder how we find hope in hopeless places. Is it in acrylic and oil paint, some wiry brushes and a pink floral subject, in the artist’s discipline and talent? Is it in a box? The mystery began with a gift and an open hand. Because of that it spoke life to me when there were no straight lines, ninety-degree corners, or hinged lids to keep loss and brokenness inside. When it’s time to return home, I leave behind the print and the mixed buds, maybe in landscape view, maybe in portrait. I’m glad it’s my sister’s. “Are those Grandma’s earrings?” Mom asks. My hands drift to the rose studs in my ears. I smile. “They are.” I wrap my arms around her and then my dad. We exchange "I love yous" and I enter the car. The keys are smooth and sure in my hands. I turn the ignition. My notebook lies on the front passenger seat. I guess I didn’t need to pack that. But something about it tells me darkness and death are not the end of the story and there is no greater gift or comfort. By Chavon Barry "Consider" in Janet Anderson's WOrdsThe painting is titled "consider" because it is a very tiny flower - dianthus, and was in a pot by my sister-in-laws front door. So easily overlooked. Something about it caught my eye and I snapped a photo. When I paint large images of tiny inconsequential flowers I'm reminded of Jesus telling his followers - many who felt tiny and inconsequential - to "consider the lilies of the field." And what gets me is that he's talking about clothes. About how we care about how we look, and feel ashamed when we don't like our appearance and feel incapable of changing it. Jesus walks right into that discomfort and says, "God cares about beauty, trust him with yours." Find more of Janet's art at janetspaintedlife.com copyright Chavon Barry 2020; image copyright Janet Anderson, Consider 2020. All Rights Reserved.
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
April 2022
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