The Corona Tales: Book III by Jason Terhune

Author:Jason Terhune [Terhune, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 1:

I love the way that the paint slides across the canvas. With each stroke of my brush I am telling each and every one of my troubles to the strangers that look upon it. I make a wish on a pale sliver of moonlight that peaks through a missing blade in the blinds. I begin to see something form, what it is I don’t know. In truth it really don’t matter at all. I never start a painting with any sort of plan in mind. It is the same with the books that I write, no plan, just let it all pour out. Most people need a plan, an outline on a painting, I feel that it is too much structure. I simply let the Devil dance across the canvas, let him dance upon the white paper and blue lines. I let Cain and Abel tell my stories through my brushes, each of my brush strokes, my strokes of the pen its own burning bush. In the end I leave both my canvas and my paper far worse off than when I began.

The room is dark for painting, I like it this way. I enjoy seeing my paintings in different lights. Anyone can paint under bright lighting. The masters used only candle light, followed the path of the sun through a window. I understand painting under the bright lights. The lights allow you to see each and every imperfection. That is the key word right there, imperfection. With a low light I allow each and every imperfection to exist, I allow them to live. I believe that each and every one of these imperfections should be allowed a life of their own.

Do you know anyone who is perfect at all? Come on ask yourself, do you know anyone who is perfect at all? I do not care if you walk with Jesus baby, deep down we are all fucked up. There is no such thing as the perfect life. There is no perfect reality that exist. We all face the same struggles, life, love, stress, and of course far too many setbacks. The key is how we approach them, how we allow them to affect us.

If nothing can possibly be perfect, if no man or woman can ever be perfect, the why should art strive to be so? I am waiting to see a thing of beauty take shape on my canvas. What that thing of beauty is or will be I do not know, but I will soon. I painted long before anyone ever paid me to do so. On the same note I wrote long before anyone ever paid me to do so. One day everyone will quit paying me to paint or to write. Yet I will still do so, I can’t stop, it’s a part of my soul, my very existence.

The true key to being an artist or being a writer is pain. The life of the artist or the writer is one of solitude, pain, and confusion.

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