The Stick

I've no photos, no paintings AND nothing to support my story. Bear with me whilst I tell of "The Stick"





THE STICK

I was not a member. And I never would be in her time there. I often wondered if I had been would I have had the chance to use 'the stick?'

I am getting waaaaaaaaaaaay ahead of myself. Sit back and listen.....

My mama has a stick but it was to paddle my butt when she saw fit to decide that. The next stick was one to draw in the dirt with because my mama had no mind to buy me art supplies. She was right handed so I must forgive her those transgressions.

My years went on, and then I was 42. I was on a dock and I met the member. She drew me in with talk of her dog named Pansy that lived to 22. My daddy use to call me and my sister Pansy.

The member was kind. I listened to her stories of watercolor paint. Of paper. Of brushes. Of 'the stick'

The member told me of a time. Just one time, although she has seen it time and time again, of her being offered the stick. THE STICK.

The stick came with a blackened pot of even blacker paint. The stick was twisted and gnarled with age. The hand that touched it made the colors come alive. I wish it'd been my hand as the member labored on with the story.

"Do you want to try?" asked the artist to the member.

"Oh no, I shouldn't" said the member in what some described as a shriek!

"You don't understand what I do, do you?"

"I've seen it. I admire it."

"I pour paint on the paper that's on the floor."

"I've watched."

"I have a glass of wine and watch the colors work their magic!"

"Can I watch too?"

"Get yourself a glass of wine"

"Watch"

"I am"

"Now my colors are dry"

"And?"


So the story goes.


The old lady pokes her stick into the pot and it gets covered in black paint. She stretches out her shaking arm to create a crooked line on her watercolor paper that is covered in spring colors. The black paint outlines in a way that a young artist could only hope to achieve.

The moral? Always be ready to be a member