My daughter loves water painting. She dips her brush in water and traces abstract patterns on the brown craft paper. With a light touch the stroke fades quickly, leaving a thin playful ribbon chasing after the wet bristles. With a heavy touch the soaked splotches last for a minute or so, blooming in reverse slowly back to nothing.
There's nothing to clean up, which is nice. But what's even better -- and I say this with all kindness towards her -- is that there is nothing to exhibit on the fridge when she is done. Growing up, I remember being hovered over and "good job!"-ed into indifference or paralysis. I try my best to say nothing and just leave her to it.
But sometimes she makes it look so fun and meditative that I can't resist joining in for a little while. I lie down on the floor a little off to the side with my own piece of paper. I pick up the brush and dip and paint. Don't affirm. Don't evaluate. Don't try. Just paint and look.
The patterns are like an ever-changing Rorschach test. Right? Or is it more like those videos of Mandelbrot zooms that take you deeper and ever deeper back to the original pattern? Or when I flick the brush and splatter little droplets everywhere, don't they look like fireworks? Or galaxies fleeing into their final remoteness?
Be quiet! It doesn't have to be any of that. It doesn't have to be anything. It is. It isn't. That's all. It's beautiful while it lasts, and it lasts as long as we keep painting.
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