My painting teacher
One of the things I'm doing here is learning traditional Chinese painting. My favorite part about class is watching my teacher. After he has carefully filled a brush with color and has assured it has the proper amount of water, he leans over the paper, brush in hand, ready yet waiting. His eyes flit about the paper, the brush in his hand giving away his thoughts as it moves slightly left, then over, then upwards, because he's looking for the right place to paint whatever he is about to paint (a new leaf, a swallow, a flower bud, etc).
Actually, it doesn't seem like he's looking for the spot. It almost seems like he's listening for something. His searching is less active and more intuitive. He's listening for the right chord, feeling for the right spot, internally painting every option with his mind's eye until *there* -- he has found it. Here, of course, is where the new leaf was meant to grow. And of course, there is where the flower bud was always meant to blossom.
When he paints, he isn't the decider, the master of what he creates. He is the listener, eagerly following the guide that only he can hear. I have rarely seen so clearly the idea of one's muse; there really seems to be a guiding force that he alone can hear, he alone will follow.
I want to listen, and yet rarely give myself the time to.
