Visual arts a lifelong love

During these languid days of midsummer, I've begun to imagine what it might be like to have the ability to paint or draw.

But, for me, this can never be.

I had a rather rocky introduction to the visual arts.

It happened when I was in the first grade and the first paper I brought home was marked with a big red "F" because I had colored a blank drawing of a bluebird by moving my crayon in an up-and-down motion instead of left-to-right, as the teacher had instructed. But I had colored neatly inside the lines, and the bird was blue. So what was the difference, I wondered.

That vivid incident forever turned me off trying to make art.

But it didn't keep me from relishing gorgeous fantasies brought to mind by seeing the sailboats of Renoir, or feeling despondent over the chilly, raw alienation evoked by Hopper's rendering of a man alone on a darkly lit street. After seeing the Broadway musical "Sunday in the Park With George," I took quite an interest in the French pointillist George Seurat.

Through the years, I have made it a point to visit dozens of museums across the globe.

My most daunting experience occurred in 1990 in Moscow at the Pushkin Museum.

A husky female attendant came up and yelled, "Nyet!" She then shoved me and attempted to confiscate my camera, although it was snug in its little pouch slung over my shoulder.

I was well-aware that taking pictures in the museum was many, many "nyets!" But I was so annoyed that I shoved the offending matron back, which didn't go over well.

However, when she stomped out of the room, I whipped out the old camera and took loads of pictures of Russian icons. I was much younger and much more foolish back then.

I would have to say my most exhilarating experiences have taken place in Paris at the Musee d'Orsay, despite the crowds, and L'Orangerie, where I reveled in Monet's waterlilies. At the Grand Palais, we once stood in line in the snow to see a Toulouse Lautrec exhibition, and I saw my first Andy Warhol image of Elizabeth Taylor at the Pompidou Centre. My husband even discovered the tiny Picasso Museum on the Right Bank, where we enjoyed seeing the artist's "Blue Period" despite having been drenched in a sudden rainstorm.

But my yen to pick up a brush was renewed when I recently came across a catalog picture of Piet Mondrian's "Foxtail Lily," from the collection of John B.L. Goodwin. The ethereal melding of the lavender and white overwhelmed me, bringing to mind my favorite flower, the hydrangea.

Whenever I catch a glimpse of these blooms, I sometimes stop the car to get a better look, and that's when I want to put brush to paper, maybe using watercolors, to capture my own unique memory.

On summer mornings, when I leave for work, I admire a green vine that has entwined itself through the slats of white wood that encompass our carport. The early sunlight cast on this cool combination of green and white causes me to want to retain on canvas this ambience of hope and serenity.

Most of all, I wish I could paint special moments with our two Himalayan cats. When the flame point kitty places her paws around my husband's arm as if she owns him, it is such an endearing sight that it makes me envy the talented artists in town who can project an animal's personality though their exacting artwork.

As I stroll from gallery to gallery during the French Quarter Art Walk and other events, I admire the ever-burgeoning artistic talent that this city has fostered. Merely seeing a melange of fantastic colors in an abstract work can change my mood.

Yet, there are also somber reminders of loneliness and fear, as darker forces leap from the canvas to stir our imaginations.

Once, when I was about 6 or 7, my great-aunt, who was an antiques dealer, had a painting in her living room of a young woman obviously in despair, as she knelt on the floor, her head held in her hands and her long, brown hair flung forward over her head and touching the floor. Right beside her was a vibrant green vase.

I couldn't take my eyes off the painting or explain the sadness I felt as I worried about the woman, even though my aunt was ready to serve dinner for our extended family.

"Why is that woman crying?" I asked my mother. "She isn't crying," my mother answered in a confident tone. "She's just washing her hair. See that big green vase? It has water in it that she's going to pour on her hair. And she's keeping her hands over her eyes to keep the soap out."

Even though I didn't believe a word of it, this explanation did make me feel somewhat better; in fact, better enough to join my cousins for a plate heaped with fried chicken and potato salad.

Arts note

Each fall, The Post and Courier publishes an arts roundup featuring the season schedules of Lowcountry performing and visual arts groups. We're working on those listings now, so organizations should send their information to the paper by Aug. 21.

Times, dates, admission cost, where to get tickets, and a brief description of the event should be included, along with a contact number.

Mail information or brochures to Dottie Ashley, The Post and Courier, 134 Columbus St., Charleston, SC 29403 or e-mail to dashley@postandcourier.com.

Reach Dottie Ashley at 937-5704.