There aren't many writers who write so genuinely from the heart of
their own experience that their words take you there as convincingly as
if you yourself had lived what they describe.
Bob White's short pieces in his Thursday Morning Art Review do that for
me. Maybe for you, too. His rendering of an Alaskan moment washes over
me like the rivers he fished and guided on. His talent is a gift, and
he treats it with great care.
Take a moment right now, go to his latest TMAR post, and tell me you're not moved.
I think what amazes me most about Bob's rare talent is that he is a
painter first and foremost, and only secondly, a writer. The writing he
shares with his subscribers and anyone who unwittingly stumbles onto
his site is there to complement his paintings, to help sell them (as if
they needed help), but his writing stands quite ably by itself.
Take these two paragraphs, for instance:
Erik Satie's third Gymnopedie
played softly in the background as I set the tin cup down. I found
myself drifting back into the painting that stood unfinished before me.
I closed my eyes and was there, in the mountains that I'd rendered,
climbing a low pass with my Gordon Setter out ahead of us. My friends
were silhouetted against the low scudding clouds, gray with the promise
of snow. It was cold, but the sun was intensely warm when it broke free
from the torn sky. Below us was the lake where we'd landed in the
floatplane. We planned to follow Mac and hunt ptarmigan on the long
hillside cover that led back to the Beaver, miles away.
A gust of wind chilled me as I crested
the ridge, and I looked hard, trying to take it all in. I willed all of
my senses to somehow record the moment, to make permanent the sound of
the wind through the peaks, the smell of crushed juniper beneath my boots,
and the temperature and humidity of the air. The taste of the late season
blueberries, casually picked and eaten, was raisin-sweet, and the weight
of birds in the back of my vest was comfortable. I promised myself that
somehow I'd never forget... and with that promise to myself, I finally
realized why it'd been so difficult for me to finish this painting; This
was the last commissioned painting that remained from my time in Alaska.
When it was finished, I would have one less tie to that place and time.
The teacher in me wants to give it to every student to whom he ever tried to explain
the value of writing for the senses and how to do so in a way that is
not maudlin, but fresh. The editor in me cries out for more
writers with vision like this. But mostly I just revel in Bob's ability
to paint with words as effectively as he does with his brush.
Thanks, Bob. If somebody today does a better job of conveying a
sense of "been there, lived that," I'd love to read his stuff.
Meanwhile, I can't wait for next Thursday.
Later...
8:03:11 AM 
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