Looking out my Backdoor: The importance of negative space

Many years ago, I took oil painting classes with Julanne Campbell in Suquamish, Washington. I like everything about painting. Oil painting, water colors, painting the walls of my house. I like the smells of paints and turpentine. I like the feel of the brush stroke against a blank surface. I’m a tactile painter; my fingers often ignore the brush and create a smooth stroke here or a smudge there.

I don’t spend enough time drawing to be good. But in any endeavor, there are the professionals, the adequate and then there is me. In any group that is ranked, somebody is first and somebody else is last. I’m perfectly willing to be last for the pure pleasure of painting.

One essential lesson I took from Julanne is the importance of negative space. The space surrounding the vase of flowers in the still-life is as important as the emerald vase filled with flowers, including the dying rose petal which fell onto the yellow tablecloth.

Over time I realized that I, consciously or subconsciously, apply the rule of negative space to other aspects of my life. In planning my garden or arranging objects in my patio or in my casita, I consider the object, the placement for effect and the empty space around the object. I think without thinking.

Yesterday I made the comment to Julie, my newest neighbor on the Rancho, that there is not space in my casa for another person. We had been discussing men in our lives. Women here seem concerned that I have a partner. I suspect one woman is scheming to hook me up with a particular man. Neither of us is interested in a more intimate friendship.

My life has just the right amount of negative space. I have solitude that I treasure. I am surrounded with beauty. I have raised my children. I have known the love of a good husband. I have kissed a frog or two who turned from prince to pauper. At this stage in my life, I’ll settle for the talking frog, no prince, thank you.

This morning while hanging sheets on the line to dry, I thought about the many families who made a life in a cabin on the Plains and made that life work. My casa is 465 square feet, an opulence of space compared to many homestead cabins. Those cabins, to we of privilege, are in our history. Families are still being raised in smaller spaces.

After hanging my wash, I stood in the middle of my two-room house. With a smidgeon of imagination and judicious rearrangement, I can see a table with benches, cots instead of couch and chairs; bookshelves become dressers. Room for a mate and four children to live in relative comfort. Luxury with indoor shower and flush toilet.

I surprised myself at how easily I could make these purely imaginary adjustments.

These last several days I’ve crammed my “space,” space being more than physical surroundings, with activities with friends, trips to the Plaza, to San Marcos, to Tequila. In the summertime, by contrast, I’m often the only gringa on the Rancho.

Taking advantage of opportunity, I started a writing group, Tuesday evenings. Five people from the Rancho and one woman from town showed up, nervous, curious, all non-writers, willing to try something different. My intention is purely selfish. I miss my old groups. Our format is simple. We grab a topic out of thin air. Pencil to paper, no crossing out, no fixing, no hesitations, write for ten minutes. Our first topic—Black boots. We read aloud what we wrote. My friends surprised themselves (but not me) with their brilliance.

Restlessly, I’ve been thinking, wanting, resisting putting a regular meditation practice back into my life. Why did I drop meditation? A combination of stubbornness and laziness. I don’t want to talk about it.

Since I feel a need for that kind of formal negative space, and now that I’ve shared my need with you, I suppose I’ll have to quit procrastinating and just do it.

I’m not holy. I’m flawed and human. No shaven head, no saffron robes, no exotic chants. Fifteen minutes to start is easily doable. Today? Sheesh. Not tomorrow? Today? Right now? Okay, okay. I’ll do it.

Sheesh.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].