I am walking up the old concrete stairs that lead up to our cottage attic. I turn left to the area with the only window. The light from outside is coming through and blinds me slightly. Against the light I cannot see well all the rubbish scattered on dirty floor, spider webs hanging from the joists, old paper boxes full of long forgotten stuff, torn fading rags and few abandoned suitcases. I step over those automatically not paying much attention to them.
All I want to see is the large wooden table that is placed near the window, the skeleton of my easel standing next to it, and a handful of colorful tubes of acrylic paints. I run my fingers across the paint tubes.
The door downstairs is closed. I still hear the faint voices of my little son and his father playing downstairs. A car passes by loudly. I open the window and breath in the fresh air that is blown in through branches and leaves of our walnut tree. They move from side to side. I can hear an apple falling heavily on the grass in the garden.
I am staring at the empty canvas. I sense the old and always present respect in front of that emptiness. I am sitting there and waiting, looking around, and listening to the sounds and voices. It feels reassuring to hear the life below me. I keep waiting. No mobile phone to reach for. No computer or device with an internet connection. Nothing to do. Tranquility. Stillness. Boredom.
I reach out for a piece of an old cardboard and quickly apply few brush strokes. I do that several times with a dry brush, no paint, just to feel the movement. It feels wonderful. Quickly I pour first paint on a paper tray and dip the brush in it. The old cardboard welcomes me while the expensive canvases and quality papers are lying nearby untouched. I feel free. No expectations. Maybe that is a sweet bit of my creative freedom. Maybe.