down. That's how Garry felt. Since hooking up with Susan he couldn't make sense
of simple . It wasn't anything Garry
could put his finger on. Susan cha-cha'd to his cheek-to-cheek, it seemed. Toes
were stepped on regularly, words tossed up and lost in the whirl wind. And the
worse of it was that he blamed himself for not knowing the cha-cha. He had a
deep affection for sweet Susan, but the whole affair had left his reality
standing on its head. Garry was moving further away from himself with each and every dance.
Does the artist
intrinsically understand his place in nature, his part in the creative journey
that rises from the soil, that breathes life through its shoots, that always
gives back? Annie and I made the best of yet another prairie winter day (yes, it IS April)
and hiked the Cedar Bog trail this weekend.
I was struck by this
question as we passed through woods filled with bird houses avec feed, a fir tree someone had decorated at
Christmas time, and lovely works of art hanging on tree trunks.
Maybe it's a mutual respect. Maybe it's about assuring each other strong, healthy roots. Maybe it's about the way the tree and I both lean toward the
midday sun with a smile, thanking our creator for making creators of all of us.
Every year, the WAG (Winnipeg Art Gallery) presents children's art in Gallery 5. It's the one exhibit I try not to miss, because who else can ImagIne as well as a child or create from a more honest place? Picasso said it well, I think:
Every child is an artist.
The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.