Sunday mornings in Summer

"There is no line where art stops and life begins" - Charles Eames

Sunday is my favorite day in the week; it somehow gives the feeling of ending the week as one would sit back and relax whilst being the start of another rejuvenating week ahead of unmarked possibilities.

One Sunday morning that summer, after a steamy shower; moisturizing my skin to a golden glow; letting my hair air dry as I put on my make up to look effortlessly flawless, as if I weren't wearing any at all: a light base foundation, bronzer, perky blush, mascara minus the eyeliner paired with a succulent nude lip cover to fight the dehydration. Slipping into my favorite yellow dress was the final touch before I hit the promenade of Durban's beachfront. It is a relaxing journey, uphill and then downhill, naturally the coast welcomes me. I wander through the smalls of each pier waving to the locals, stopping to chat about the heat, share valuable compliments to the sand artistes making an honorable living out in the sun for the joy 'art' brings to the faces of tourists as well as to our own.

On this particular Sunday, I spot a modest table displaying a 'country bunch' beside an easel which supported a canvas mimicking the splendor of the flowers. Four or five "bouquets" of the same were kept down below in the now-popular "mason" glass jars restaurants are known for housing summery drinks. I stop immediately; transfixed at the beauty of these small treasures, intricate bundles filled with a variety of jewels called flowers that have been lovingly assembled with a careful eye. The combination of colors is dramatic – with blues, reds, purples, whites and of course, yellows! The vendor seems amazed at my immediate joy in her arrangement. I tell her I will come by on my way out to purchase a bundle; I don't want them to wilt while I browse. "Take this, it is for you while I finish the arrangement and clean my brush", the woman urged. Frightened by her intense enthusiasm, I reach in to my purse on the side of my hip and begin asking about her. She has apparently assembled these flowers from her well-journeyed community, and seems unaware of their charms.

It was her livelihood to not merely sell flowers, but sell the paintings of it for more value instead. Her plight was left for nothing but struggle and humiliation as she cleaned those brushes with murky water dripping down her wrists. "My community does not allow me to do my business there. They take me for a fool because of before." I couldn't fathom what was before. Which group of people doesn't 'allow' somebody to try, none the less – succeed? "I had a tough time back there, I still do – you know! At least you see the same beauty I see here, nobody else there sees it." My heart began to race thinking what could be the reason for hearing such heaviness from her heart. "It wasn't easy you know, being the only girl in my family; and when it happened, my family didn't want me for fear of the same man who hurt me, might just hurt them too. I was enough!"

Without considering what the action of hurting her was, I only thought as my feet grew deeper into the ground... her family and her community gave up on her, but look at her today...

Later, while adoring the painting I returned with at home, I think to myself, "THIS is Art". It seems something that appears natural to her, without much effort or talent. She is surprised when someone will pay for it. This is the nature of "honest" art. Something that arises out of everyday life – the forces of nature produce God's treasure; it is the artist that captures it in a somewhat naive way.

I begin to contemplate "what it means to make art".

I've come to some new conclusions.

Namely, your life is your art.

That which you think comes naturally yet must be considered scientifically, every day, is your greatest 'source'. You cannot create art without a source, but the nature of what makes a good source is sometimes illusive to the maker. Look to your life. The things you experience without thinking, is exactly what you express in a form to overcome. A walk in our surroundings; my mathematics teacher explained how geometry places you distances apart from the destination you eventually ensued. A phone conversation; my physical science teacher elaborated on the importance of sound waves and frequencies per decibel of each pitch and tone one would use to vary the emphasis through a conversation, now glorified by mobile communication. One's childhood obsession of playing in the rain until night came where geography fanatics understood the importance of plateau changes when the ground was solid but soon became doused with water simultaneously as the stars and the moon shone bright for the soil to compress.

Using personal yet prolific elements in one's opus enables the artiste to transform art, change the viewer's experience. It becomes worthy of documenting. The artiste's view of the world is unique. Viewers eventually respond to one's work when it is honest. Even though one might not see the beauty which is present, we begin to relate with the underlying canvas which becomes filled with the color of life.

I think my canvas will forever be filled with yellow, like when the sun meets the sunflower opposing the shade.