The Artist.

If you are an artist, you might recognise yourself in this poem about artists and their studios.

THE ArTiSt. 


Enlivened by starting something new,
An idea that has been thought through,
A canvas is placed on an easel,
Mediums arranged on a table
And with palette and brush in hand,
The artist closes off the world
And enters a creative whirl.
 
An array of colours in tubes and pans
Is mixed on the palette by the artist's hand.
Painting knives and brushes:
Flats, rounds and filberts -
A mahl stick to steady the hand.
The studio fills with odours
Of mediums, oils and solvents.
 
Art paraphernalia is scattered around,
Dipping buckets of glass and stainless steel,
Rags of linen - anything soft to the feel
To capture smudges and spills out of hand.
A paint-splattered overcoat, a headband -
Books of masters and guidelines are strewn about;
Colour wheels and references to help the artist out.
 
The canvas will be transformed,
From mere thought,
Into something hand-wrought.
A vision captured
And vibrantly coloured.
 
Passion is the source from which art soars:
A field of sunflowers,
A bank of storm clouds, rain showers,
Hills of green, cerulean seas.
Perhaps a still-life:
A draped cloth, a silver tureen,
A peeled apple and paring knife,
Light reflecting on a wine glass or two;
Whatever the intellect can construe.
Themes from city lights to wildlife;
Portraits, figures, a reclining nude.
 
Imagination flows, sometimes faster
Than the brush allows.
Certain struggles come to the fore
The artist has made a flaw,
But is intent and the challenges are met.
Paint is spread everywhere -
Some structured, some dared
Sweeps of colour, dashes, swirls
And so the creation evolves.    
 
The moment of completion is near,
Just a tweak here and there.
The signature of a darker colour
Is placed in a bottom corner;
An untidy scrawl or secret script
To state who painted this.
A possible claim to fame?
This the artist will not dismiss.
 
The artists of this world are bold -
Their sensitivities are untold;
Criticism they stoically bear,
But ultimately their visions sprout,
They are the world's creative fount.
 
Some bemoan the price of art;
It's just a picture,
They don't see the artist's heart.
They overlook the hours of work,
Skill and experience
And last but not least,
The artist's soul and essence!

 ~ Caroline Street. 

 

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Copyright © Caroline Street Art/Poetry/Photography. All rights reserved.