THE CANVAS

The cocktail napkin, a canvas of sorts, rests on the table soaking the beads of sweat that drip from the glass. Outside, a cold steady rain continues through the dark grey skies of the early evening. Finishing the drink off, I place the glass down and make my way out.

Opening the creaky door, I’m immediately hit by a strong wind, the type of wind that pushes and pulls you in every direction other then the one your heading, the type of wind that never has let up. A mixture of trash, dust and leaves swirl around the desolate streets. As I pull the door shut, the rain blasts my face hard, like a right cross you didn’t see coming, as I turn into the storm. Walking blindly, backwards for a few steps, I enter a narrow alley way that separates two buildings, finding shelter for a few brief moments.

Away from the wind standing in this corridor, my vision blurry, I wipe the rain from my eyes with my rain-soaked shirt sleeve. Around me, the cold brick walls, once so tatted-up and stained have been scrubbed clean and bleached of its past in order to suit the pleasant little boutiques only yards away. Yet those markings, like my own through the years, have been burnt deep and can never really be cleansed.

The storm rages on, the rain and wind blow strong up from the ocean to these deserted streets. Amongst the powerful sounds of nature fighting back of whistling wind and blowing debris, store front windows rattle while I stand in this quite alley-way. This little corridor, rarely seen or traveled through now, is a vestige of the neighborhoods daring and dark past. The buildings that it rests between have long since been restored but it is been the home to stolen glances of amor, midnight dreams of impossible grandeur and still yet the broken-down lament of a junkies score and spiral into hell …it has seen it all, the good, the bad, the hideous and yet its perfect mid-brown colored bricks now provides shelter for me.

In the corner, by broken shards of glass is a small scrawl into the brick that seems to have escaped the notice during a recent restoration. The passionate etching of a knife to brick tells of youthful love that could have been etched under a sprawling weeping willow while we sat under the southern stars or midnight desert rock that only we will ever know, sits as testament for a time long ago and far away in a time when everything was pure. Said in any language and in any language said so well, it was where all the colors of the rainbow sat in loving harmony in a time when we really believed everything was gonna’ be alright.

But the years have rolled-by so painfully quick and what was good and what was pure seemed to have gotten lost on the way and…everything isn’t alright. As the thin walkway between the two walls continue a white light glares penetrating overhead, signaling the end of alley. A border line you might say to the outside, where the storm continues to come down at a quickening pace, where sense and sensibilities seem lost.

From the light it’s only a short walk home but it isn’t time yet and instead I turn around and head back where I came. Into the sideways rain, the heavy wind, into a storm that wages on, where everything is grey I suppose. A beautiful shade of grey I might add, not black, not white, not brown but grey, colorless, perfect. Old eye’s squint blurry-eyed into the storm and I look towards the horizon, waiting to see a glimpse of the clouds breaking up.

I stop at my favorite place that I seem to always find my way too and grab some java. The last remains of today’s coffee is a bit too bitter right now the hot paper cup against my cold hands feels good. I head back to my studio, into the rain and howling wind and begin my nights work. I mix my colors on the pallet, a broad spectrum of colors. With blade, I mix them together, so they cascade into something perfect, so right something harmonious.

I’d like to tell you that look out at that storm that I saw a clearing amongst the meandering confusion of a tormented society lost in greed, hatred and ignorance and that sense and sensibilities will emerge. I’d like tell of grand visions of beautiful sunrises and a better tomorrow but I cannot because what once was so obviously of important to society is not anymore. And yet as I sit now and look at this perfect palette, I see the simplicity, as both bursting with colors and colorless. The possibilities are endless where all colors are mixed together in harmony on the canvas.