The Moon:  A Painter's Muse
By Karri Allrich

In my real life I am a painter. Permanently watchful, scanning the landscape for the twist 
in the road, the softened edge of a tree line meeting the winter sky. The push and play of light on moving clouds. Artists in movies talk about color, spatial relationships, and abstract composition.  At real life gatherings they jockey for position; who studied with whom, what shop makes the best frames, what gallery sells the most work. Commissions and percentages. It is here where I begin to drift. I lose my focus and half listen. I swim with the moon in my mind's eye, in silent immersion. From watery depths I search for her with longing like a lover's hunger. 

The moon is my Muse.  Inspiration, pure and basic.  Nothing else comes close. It's that simple.  Where others are moved by concept, the pursuit of beauty, coin or status, I am moved only by her. She is the centerpiece of my practice. I could paint her everyday for the rest of my life. I try sometimes to leave her out. I place my intention square in the landscape.  I lose myself in distant hills and heathered foregrounds.  I push paint around the supple give of Belgian linen, and fool myself that I am satisfied. The earth has its pull, too, and I give in to the pleasure of her textures and form. The riot of information that competes for my artist's attention. I choose unspoiled ground and off-road places. It's getting harder and harder to find a piece of earth not manipulated by man. Our evidence is everywhere, insistent. Post modern. Not everyone is 
saddened by this.

I do love the land, and as I stand drinking in the spirit of place, it grows in urgency. The 
painter in me struggles with intellectual concerns; edges, atmosphere and distance. Decisions are made to redraw a tree, widen the water, sharpen a curve in the salt marsh. Stepping back from the canvas I evaluate my efforts. Have I captured the time of day? The cool morning shadows or warm blush of twilight? Does the sense of place shine through? Is this visual prayer of mine complete? I seldom know. I only guess. There is a moment when the effort seems to wane on its own, apart from me, the artist, standing there with stained hands and an aching pelvis.  The painting is done. The prayer is over.  Maybe. 

The palette gets scraped, and brushes are cleaned. The painter's ritual. The message to 
the intellect is sent. This painting is finished. I glance at the canvas out of the corner of my eye. Turn and face it. Step back. A familiar nagging begins to gather in my stomach. A sigh collects momentum.  Something's missing.  I feel it.  I ignore this implication and move on. Later in the kitchen I start a pot of soup; chopping garlic and Vidalia onions, setting the burner on low-medium to heat the virgin olive oil. I find the big can of Italian crushed tomatoes in the cupboard.  It needs a moon. When the onions have softened I add the tomatoes and stir. 

Do I paint yet another moon? I stand at the sink and wash vegetables in every color. Mis en place is a lovely concept in efficiency.  I am not an efficient cook. I toss and chop as I go, and hardly ever measure an ingredient. Cooking for me is like painting. And I'm a messy intuitive painter. The vegetables go into the pot, followed by a quart of broth, a handful of herbs, and pinch of sea salt. I cover the pot and turn toward the door down the hallway. The painting is calling to me.  I surrender, as always, and take my time in contemplation. The soup won't need my attention for a good while. I sit and stare at the wet canvas resting on the milk crate.  The mood is strong, the dark tone conveys the shape of the land nicely. But something's missing. 

I seldom debate for very long. I stand and mix the familiar creamy blend of paint that reflects the illusion of moonlight, and turn toward the painting that is back on my easel. I wait, expectant. This mysterious process of painting is all about expectancy. Each blank canvas that we painters face is like the dark new moon. The painting is already there, waiting to be brought into the light of consciousness. All possibility awaits the slow turning of creativity. The unfolding truth. Facing an almost finished painting with the intention of adding in a moon is a delicious moment. 

I never know beforehand what phase the moon will be. The spirit of the painting will 
tell me. Persephone's crescent, clear and pure...or the voluptuous magnetism of the full moon, radiant? My late autumn paintings cried out for the Crone's moon, that delicate fingernail hanging in the west. Today, in winter, I paint a pale waxing crescent.  It completes my intention, my prayer, my offering. My Muse must be honored, after all. I cannot deny her.

You might say that in my real life I am a painter. But this is not my real life. I am a lover of the moon and all her mystery. She permeates everything I do. And I give thanks to her lessons of surrender every night.