lessons in planning

He walks into the room, I know he's going to work. He's wearing his paint splattered camouflage shorts and a white t-shirt. He walks into the kitchen and mixes himself a drink.

I ask him what his plan is for the painting sitting, waiting patiently for him to be ready.

"I don't like to plan," Rey says, grabbing at his hair and yanking it out by the roots. Annoyed with my idea of planning.

"I start with a simple idea. Something that catches my eye."

"I start with a color palate, something that will set the mood."

Rey picks up his heavy helping of jack and coke. The ice clanks against the side of the glass. He smiles, then takes a long sip. His new drawing rests on the easel, he leans against the wall and fingers his chin.

He's thinking, but not planning. He claims there is a big difference. He spots me questioning his process, my eyes fixed on his canvas.

"Planning means you know what is going to happen next, I usually don't. I know where to start and how I want it to finish but the actual process is like a magical journey."


How do you plan a magical journey? Creative thoughts are built around impulses. The word impulse, by nature means to be done without planning or forethought.

"The rush of not knowing, that is what drives to me finish, it's like unwrapping the biggest gift under the tree on Christmas." Rey laughs and picks up the brush. He dips the end into a fire orange, the color reminds me of over ripe tangerines. He drags the brush in a zig-zag motion across the mid-section of the canvas, he turns to me and smiles.

"There is my start, now let's see where it takes us." I can't help but to smile back, he's voice is alluring and confident. I feel like were on the verge of something wonderful. He seems willing to take me along on his magical journey.

I try to remember to breathe. I can hear my heart pounding.

I can smell Rey's intoxicating cologne mixing with the aroma of the oil paint. I close my eyes, letting the sounds of his brush lure me. I open them to discover we are indeed on a journey and I don't want it to end.

And now I understand, I'm experiencing the rush of not planning...

waiting for clarity...

Photographs, magazines, old movie stills, Rey searches in vein...He walks into his make shift studio. Rests a Jack and coke on the dining room table, as he plants his butt on a worn stool. A newly purchased canvas, rests, waiting, on the cheap pine easel, I surprised him with last week.

A single easel, a clip-on light, burning into the white...the dam white is glaring at him. He furrows his brow. Grips his fingers, tightly, around a freshly-sharped graphic pencil.

And, unconsciously, picks up an over-worked, misused, rubber eraser, just in case.

The blinding white light dances, creating shadows, on the now, taunting blankness.

He adjusts the light. Roughly, tugging on the shade, swearing at his misfortune.

Rey squirms, uncomfortably on the wobbly stool. He stiffens his back, then relaxes. He stretches his confused fingers and drops his unused pencil in defeat. The eraser remains tight in his grasp.

He cracks, his knuckles, allowing the eraser to crash to the floor. He cracks his neck with his eyes squeezed shut. He twists his back with one hand remaining on his hip. He scans the room looking lost.

He catches me watching. A quick, unsure smile flashes across his conflicted face.

He picks up the pencil and glances at me with intrigue. I'm pretending not to look. He studies me, I grow self-conscious from his eager stare.

I can sense a mixture of caution and creativity pouring through him. He scoops up his pencil and feverishly drags the lead across the white space. Creating swooping circles, long straight lines and tight ovals.

Fast and furious, as inspiration clearly rings in his ears.

A wide smile parades, as the music of his magnificent muse sings, and his gifted hands produce.

I leave him alone to create. Daydream. Transcribe and discover. I leave the room knowing that he'll find the clarity to the picture so desperately trying to sneak it's way out.