A is for ART

Art fascinates me. I can stare at a Renoir, Picasso or Van Gogh or indeed the work of any popular or famous artist and be totally unimpressed by the priceless masterpiece before my eyes and yet find great satisfaction in the attempted creations of an eleven year old artistically challenged child in my classroom. The bottom line is I'm never sure what is good art and what is rubbish. But then, to me, art was always all about opinions. As I browse the galleries and study those who study the canvases on the walls, I wonder how many genuinely understand and appreciate what they see and how many pose more than what they are observing. In my schooldays, although memories are slightly airbrushed now, I don't recall sitting in a class full of budding Monets or Da Vincis but I do remember it being suggested, though not in so many words, that studying English or Science might be the better pathway to success for me than dangling on the end of a paintbrush. Quite simply, I wasn't any good, though I have strong suspicions that my Art teacher extinguished any flair I might have developed with his stern, uncompromising and rigid approach to teaching the subject. Such was his effect on me, that I gave up any thoughts of a career in colour by the age of fourteen and vowed that the next paintbrush I handled would be used to paint the walls of my house. Somewhere, deep down, I'm not so much regretful as disappointed that another human being could have the ability to stifle creativity before it had blossomed. Maybe he had seen that there was no flower there to begin with. Anyway, as two of my friends create mini masterpieces before my amazed eyes, with just a dash of shading here and a splash of colour there, and I watch, as they remain indifferent to and slightly embarrassed by my glowing tributes to their talent, and then listen as they explain the mistakes that my untrained eye cannot see, I realise that opinion may not always be right.

To me, there are two types of artists. Those who can copy or 'recreate' from something they see and those who draw the pictures that form inside their heads. Yet they both possess that rare gift to make a pencil, pastel or brush obey their every movement and to visualise the shades and colours that bring their finished work to life. And while I envy, in a non-jealous sort of way, their talent, I know that my gifts lie elsewhere and the importance is not in having a gift but in how I can use it for God. As a Christian, I belong to a greater body of believers and if my gift encourages someone else to have a deeper relationship with their creator, then no brush or colour could paint the picture of contentment that I feel. Paul writing to the church in Rome, reminds me that, 'we have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach.' But whatever picture you are painting, don't leave it half finished.