Autumn N. Hall

A Study in Hue

It is as though we are handed a canvas, unmarked tubes of random pigment, asked to use our fingers for a brush. A class without syllabus, professor, or grades. One we hardly remember signing up for...

"No, there is no assignment. Simply paint."

We don't know what we're doing. This is an entirely new perspective—so fresh, so fun, so limitless; yet, fraught with such potential for mistake. (Who knew this many shades could blend to brown?) Splashes of brilliance, drips of doubt, a portrait just beginning to take shape. But the moment we appear to grasp what we are co-creating, the picture changes, shifts again to an image beyond our reach or understanding.

"I no longer wish to be a Still Life."

Open a window to let in the light, and with it, all the unpredictables: A butterfly flits through the studio spurring a fancy to follow its flight. A storm swells, and its cloud shadows darken the fragile mood. The work alternates between begging for attention and insisting on being left alone.

"Closer, closer...more foreshortening. On second thought, just break the page!"

And then one day, the inevitable—the discovery of the door, the vanishing point which leads outside the studio entirely.

"Ah, so this is the world..."

Children—the works of art we never get to finish.

an empty easel
and everything so clean
so quiet
a studio sans canvas
and yet, luminosity