My first attempt at oil painting was a depiction of a storm. Not just any storm, but that biblical tempest, in which the Savior walked on water and commanded the wind to tame its fury. It was the scene described by Matthew, in chapter 14, that day when the Sea of Galilee, with all its turmoil, allowed itself to be subdued by Someone greater. I, a child of about 9 or 10 years old, with more boldness than talent, sat down in front of a piece of cardboard given to me by my sister and began to bring the story to life.
I didn't think too much about who the original author was. I had a postcard in front of me that I had received from a neighbor, and that seemed sufficient. Even today I don't know who painted it, but I know that image enchanted me. The colors, the folds of the cloak, the waves that seemed to breathe in unison, everything seemed wow to me. So I painted quickly, with childlike vigor, without much hesitation.
After I finished, I placed the 'masterpiece' on the living room cabinet, in a strategic spot where everyone who crossed our threshold could admire it. And they did, for a few weeks. But, as all new things are quickly replaced by something even newer, so too my painting was soon replaced by another, slightly more successful one, and eventually, it began to be moved from place to place until, inevitably, it ended up on the balcony. From there, after a short stay, it took the path to the trash can. Never mind, I told myself then. Every artist must learn to let go.
Years passed. So many years passed that I had completely forgotten about that painting. I was now in my final year of university and felt lost. It was a Saturday, one of those days when everything seemed meaningless. I was heading to the studio, burdened by doubts and discouragement, dissatisfied with my thesis. I remember walking through a children's playground – their laughter seemed light-years away from my state of mind – and in front of me, a man was carrying a framed painting under his arm. Being around noon, I deduced that he was just returning from the flea market, that place where people from Cluj say you can find 'a bit of everything'.
And then I saw it: the colors, the folds, those unmistakable waves. It was my painting! The painting I had thought lost forever, now stood before me, framed, as if it had always been waiting for this moment. I was overcome by an emotion I can hardly describe. The painting I had mercilessly discarded had survived, traveled through time and through the hands of strangers, and now, like an unexpected guest, it reappeared before me, prouder and more dignified than I had left it.
What a lesson! The things we leave behind – be they small or large – have an unexpected way of returning to us. They remind us that nothing is truly lost. That, in the end, all storms subside.
Fr. Ioan Gînscă
Photography by Anastasia Shuraeva / pexels.com