Forest of Trees

When I was younger I wanted to be an artist. I painted for four years as a young teen and went to an art studio for lessons on focus, depth, shading, and mediums; I preferred acrylics because they were safe. I began to look at the girls painting around me and soon began to hate my pieces. How did they bend the petals like that? How did they get the water to shimmer like that? How did they create a silhouette? I kept asking myself “How do they DO that!?” I was only twelve and expected to be able to recreate magazine photos like the older girls in the group. One day I just quit and ran a black brush across my canvases. Later on, I was told that I was a passive aggressive artist and I never spoke to that person again.

Now, I can all but glare at this piece (above).

Like a child, I'm conflicted. I hate it and still get lost in it. The surrounding trees stand like kings. The trunks of their ancestors, all covered in a thick lustrous emerald, lie at their feet and protect them from the cold ground which they now govern. Their roots wrap gently around the foothills, calling them out and leading the way around them. But they are restless; arcing forward to lead the winding path through the forest and over the hills to a small open meadow of untouched grasses and small fragrant wild flowers. Branches and leaves create a titanic evergreen canopy, both shielding and untrustworthy; beams of light shine against the bark that clings to their trunks and glow gold. They are inviting me to follow them deeper and deeper and to lie on the cool bed of grass for a mid-day slumber under the soft green sky. They fight for my attention, each tree larger, brighter in color, and more silent than the last, and wait patiently to tell the cool and affectionate breeze their secrets. The shades of green that encompass the moss sing without the need of voices as their barely audible sounds tell tales of a lonely peace.

I remember walking though the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and seeing a huge fifty foot canvas hanging from the wall, with all these red velvet ropes around it. I remember walking closer to it to get a glimpse of what could have been so brilliant that there was a need for ropes, only to see that the entire canvas was blank except for a thin barely-there beige line that was painted on one side. I also remember wanting to throw something at it because what was so special. I could do that.

But when I look at this painting, I can only wonder if those trees still stand where they are. Has time finally ravaged them, shifting the surroundings in the most cruelly subtle of ways? Maybe I can imagine them one hundred years from now.

The trees, though still tall, grow weak and hollow as they try to act as they did in their youth. They still arc toward the meadow but the path is now wild and beaten, and made invisible by tall grass and stiff roots. Beams of light still shine against the bark that tries so desperately to cling to the trunks, and not as effortlessly as it had once done, thought they still glow gold. They still invite me to follow them deeper and deeper, although their memory has faded and cannot lead me the whole way. They are still inviting me to slumber under the one thing that has not changed, the soft green sky, though the bed is now cold and hard. The shades of green are now darker and grin at me devilish smile and angled eyes.

I lift up my brush.