My Mother’s Palette — A Poem

Written for my mother, and all artists everywhere.

My Mother’s Palette

In the beginning, before work begins, her palette
is nothing more than white plastic in a familiar shape.
Empty like the canvas in front of her,
the eventual painting is nothing more than a thought.
Formless as the world before Genesis.
The word — let there be paint.

And from tube after tube, it emerges.
The chosen colors, shiny, wet, important as blood.
Yet it is the palette where it all begins —
the act of creation.
For upon the white lies endless possibilities.
Life’s spectrum.

And the brush hovers above the palette dipping
from reservoir to reservoir. Unique shades
forming in the moment as the painting
begins to take shape,
and then the miracle happens.

The final brushstroke, a splash of colour,
it is done. Transcending painting to become art,
life from lifelessness, and there remains the palette,
an abstract painting in miniature. As original as
the artwork it was used to create -
and the painter who created it.

— — -

My mother’s website is http://www.anthea-m.com

You can follow her on facebook at http://www.facebook.com/anthea.m.art