Painting With Words

 

I have little to no artisitc talent, but I greatly admire those who do. Instead, I paint with words, as do many others who are writers. There are a few who are talented in both crafts. Super Stars in my book.

Writers, painters, sculptors, potters--all are artists. I wrote a poem on this topic that placed in our Kansas Authors state contest several years ago. You can read it below.

Artists All

Painting with oils,

watercolors brushed across canvas,

clay molded by loving hands, 

marble chiseled to exquisite form

Artists ply their trade,

by the golden light of day

and velvet depths of night,

with passion and verve.

One more artist joins the rank.

The writer brushes words over paper,

molds a story bit by glittering bit,

chisels a novel to survive the ages.

The writer gathers life’s stories 

from country roads to city streets,

written from the depths of a heart

bursting with intensity and rapture.

Artists all, masters of creation,

be they painters, sculptors or writers,

leaving footprints on canvas, marble and paper--

heartfelt tributes embraced by mankind.

                              ...Nancy Julien Kopp (c)

If you're a writer, you're also an artist. You paint with words. You use words to sculpt, to mold, to sketch. The good writer paints those words so that they stand out for the reader with beautiful prose, vivid descriptions, and a definite sense of place. The good writer paints his/her words with emotion. 

Be proud of what you do as you brush words across paper rather than on a canvas. Be proud of what you give to the world. Be proud of what you have accomplished as a word artist. 

                  

Write About Your Mother

Yesterday, we visited genealogy and Family Stories. Today, let's narrow it down to stories about our mothers. It's a bit past Mother's Day, but we're in the month that honors mothers. I liked this quote and the poster photo. Look at the way the little boy leans into his mother. For him, it's a place of safety and comfort. 

Try writing about your mother including the following: 

• where she grew up
• siblings or no siblings?
• where did she fall in the line of siblings?
• her school years
• her hobbies
• her chores
• her personality
• boyfriends and dating
• which parent she was closest to
• church and Sunday School
• temperament
• happiest moments
• saddest moments
• her marriage
• her husband
• her children
• her grandchildren
• favorite foods
• favorite flower
• best friends
• musical ability
• physical traits
• emotional traits
• her disappointments

You can probably come up with more. I found myself writing a great deal about my mother when I was asked to speak at her memorial service. I was thankful that she had been a storyteller, so I knew a lot about her growing up years and farther on, right up to her final day. I have also written something titled "About Our Mother" which was sent to my three brothers and they, in turn, could send to their children. (I did one for my father, as well) 

As you write about your mother, you'll find that little things trigger memories and stories that happened long ago. Take advantage of that and write a family story. When a memory jumps up, stop and make a few notes so that you can write the story later. If you don't, it will slip away never to be found again.

My mother was the youngest of five, all the older siblings were boys. Two had died as toddlers. She grew up in a small coal-mining town in Iowa where she had free rein to wander the streets. She knew no stranger as a child or as an adult. She talked to everyone and had a smile for all. Her mother was very strict, and my poor mama was always in trouble, or so it seemed. Her big brothers protected her and stood up for her, and she adored them all of her life. She often walked to the coal mine outside of town when her dad's shift was over to walk home with him. Her name was Garnet, but he called her Buddy, which was most appropriate. 

That nickname triggered a story Mom told me long ago. The short version is that her mother attended church services Sunday mornings and Sunday nights. One Sunday evening, my mother begged to stay at home with her dad. Once her mother left, the two of them went to the picture show, as the theater was called. During the intermission, a drawing was held, and, wouldn't you know, my mother and her father won a floor lamp with a flaming red shade. On the walk home, her dad said, "Now, we're gonna be in big trouble, Buddy." 

I could write more and more about my mother, but my aim here was to show a little so that you can get started writing about your own mother. Tell us what you loved about her, what you didn't. In other words, don't just dote on her good qualities, tell it all. Draw a word painting so your readers will know this woman you called Mom, Mother, Mama or some other name. 

Do this for your family, and maybe do it for your mother, whether she is still with you or not. I can almost guarantee that you more Family Stories will evolve from writing all you can about your mother. This exercise is not just for writers. Everyone can do this, Everyone!

The photo above is from the Hans Christian Andersen movie starring Danny Kaye as Hans. The quote is his, too. The gifted comedian and actor was an insightful man. How right he was to urge us to do all we can with what we have. 

He used a canvas and the idea of our being artists to get his point across. For me, the quote can also be looked at as writers who must spread the word paintings they create wherever possible. Never write just a little. Write every day--words of advice writers hear from successful writers--write with the joy of spreading your words where many can read them. 

Writers do paint with words rather than brushes. Aren't we lucky? Our method is not nearly as messy. We don't need to wear a smock to cover our clothes as we tap away at our keyboards. We don't have to deal with wet paint and turpentine to clean brushes. Yet, we can paint a wonderful picture with the words that come from our hearts. 

I know I am not alone in being overwhelmed at some natural scenery and wishing I could capture the place and the moment on canvas. Art is not my gift but I can write about what I witnessed. A short essay came from a moment in time many years ago which expands on this topic. Note the quote at the end. You can read it below. 

 Word Painting

By Nancy Julien Kopp

    

Out of breath and heart pounding, I make it to the top of the hill. Tallgrass prairie spreads before me, wildflowers springing up between the sharp blades of grass, dotting the hillsides with bits of bold color. Not a cloud mars the intensity of a clear azure sky.  The strong breeze ruffles my hair, and I take a deep breath, pleasure encasing my very soul. Soon, the sun will turn to flame and begin a slow descent before the darkness of night covers the rolling hills like a vast blanket.

    

Oh, to be an artist and capture the scene God has placed before me. But a paintbrush and canvas are useless for a person like me. I can see the spectacular display, but never would I be able to duplicate it with an artist’s tools. I earned C’s in art classes all through my school years, and only for effort, not as the successful result of any assigned project.

    

I sigh, survey the living prairie once more, and bend to pluck a wildflower. I twirl the blossom between thumb and forefinger, then head to my car. The dust on the gravel road swirls behind me as I drive, and thoughts dance through my mind.

   

Maybe there is a way to capture what I’ve seen here today. Since I’m a writer, I paint my canvas with words in every story or article I create. That flower lying on the seat next to me—soft as the down on a baby’s head, purple as royal robes, and delicate as lace. All of these phrases describe the pretty little blossom. I bring it close and sniff to catch its sweet scent. I think of more phrases to capture this beauty for others. The artist’s canvas hangs on a wall or rests on an easel for all to see, but my words can live on, too.

    

The artist may dip his brush into paint and splash it across canvas to portray the sky, while I paint my sky with words—words that articulate, emote, surge the senses, highlight emotions. Can the artist capture the movement of the tallgrass prairie with a swish of his brush? A gifted painter can do so, but I can, too. I sift through phrases in my mind until I find the ones I want. Gentle breezes cause only a slight stir in the stiff blades of grass, but a strong Kansas wind can bring wave upon wave as it surges swiftly across the prairie. My words flow as easily as the artist’s brush. I paint my words with passion and excitement. The picture emerges from the depths of my heart. It is the gift God has given me, a gift He allows me to share with others who read my work.

    

Danny Kaye, actor and comedian, said, “Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can.”  I, too, am an artist. Just imagine what I can paint with words.

Word Painting

While looking through some old files, I found a short piece I'd written a good many years ago after seeing something that made me wish I could paint. Here it is below, unedited.  

Word Painting

 By Nancy Julien Kopp

Out of breath and heart pounding, I make it to the top of the hill. Tallgrass prairie spreads before me, wildflowers springing up between the sharp blades of grass, dotting the hillsides with bits of bold color. Not a cloud mars the intensity of a clear azure sky.  The strong breeze ruffles my hair, and I take a deep breath, pleasure encasing my very soul. Soon, the sun will turn to flame and begin a slow descent before the darkness of night covers the rolling hills like a vast blanket.

Oh, to be an artist and capture the scene God has placed before me. But a paintbrush and canvas are useless for a person like me.  I can see the spectacular display, but never would I be able to duplicate it with an artist’s tools. I earned C’s in art classes all through my school years, and only for effort, not as the successful result of any assigned project.

I sigh, survey the living prairie once more, and bend to pluck a wildflower. I twirl the blossom between thumb and forefinger, then head to my car. The dust on the gravel road swirls behind me as I drive, and thoughts dance through my mind.

Maybe there is a way to capture what I’ve seen here today. Since I’m a writer, I paint my canvas with words in every story or article I create. That flower lying on the seat next to me—soft as the down on a baby’s head, purple as royal robes, and delicate as lace. All of these phrases describe the pretty little blossom. I bring it close and sniff to catch its sweet scent. I think of more phrases to capture this beauty for others. The artist’s canvas hangs on a wall or rests on an easel for all to see, but my words can live on, too.

The artist may dip his brush into paint and splash it across canvas to portray the sky, while I paint my sky with words—words that articulate, emote, surge the senses, highlight emotions. Can the artist capture the movement of the tallgrass prairie with a swish of his brush? A gifted painter can do so, but I can, too. I sift through phrases in my mind until I find the ones I want. Gentle breezes cause only a slight stir in the stiff blades of grass, but a strong Kansas wind can bring wave upon wave as it surges swiftly across the prairie. My words flow as easily as the artist’s brush. I paint my words with passion and excitement. The picture emerges from the depths of my heart. It is the gift God has given me, a gift He allows me to share with others who read my work.

     

Danny Kaye, actor and comedian, said, “Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can.”  I, too, am an artist, and I’ll dot my prose with colorful words as long as I’m able.