West Side Canvas: A Beautiful Dance

Painting and Essay by Robert Beck

The balloons were separate when I brought them home, but over time the ribbons entwined, and they began to move in close harmony.

I tied them outside the front door, which seemed the perfect place for their message: Welcome Back. They turned and twirled in the breeze, their bright colors cheering and flashing in the sunlight, riding as high as the ribbons allowed. They had to be rescued when one got caught on the edge of the light, and there was an odd afternoon when they were inexplicably floating slack just a few feet off the ground, but they rose again and flew for a week out in the elements, glowing in the dawns, nodding at the sunsets, putting up with the rain; a good run by balloon standards.

They were brought inside when I could see their energy waning. I tied them to the back of a kitchen chair, where they swayed in the gentle movement from the air conditioner. Their message wasn’t time-dated, like a birthday or anniversary, so I was happy to have them bobbing around, being cheerful and heartfelt for as long as they were up for it.

Two days later, as I came in to make my first coffee of the morning, they were floating low, their sides collapsing, supporting each other with what buoyancy they had left to share. I moved them to the room where I write, to keep my eye on them. It was a lovely last dance; unhurried, wrapped together, dipping, and rising, still defying gravity with what life remained. They leaned against each other. Blue pressed its forehead against Yellow’s cheek as they drifted in the quiet.

That was the moment to remember. The next afternoon, the blue balloon lost the last of its energy, slowly pulling the yellow one down beside it as it lay on the floor. There were times when Yellow turned slightly toward me, then swung back toward Blue, where it spent most of its time motionless.

I did very little for hours, my thoughts pulled away from writing. Recollections and emotions emerged from my past as I watched the balloons. People, places, and events flowed, connected by the thinnest of threads. It is said that what our subconscious mind holds and processes is many times—thousands or more—that of our conscious mind. We think that hunches, gut reactions, or that sudden powerful perception come out of nowhere, but they don’t. We just aren’t close to understanding that part of ourselves.

There is a dimension where images and words become more than sentences and brushstrokes. Where they more than describe or illuminate, and our mind takes over.  We gauge things by contrasting them to others. We grasp through metaphor.  And sometimes our subconscious makes a connection, grabs our hand, and takes a big leap that transcends mathematics. Where one plus one adds up to so much more than two.

The yellow balloon stood upright through the evening and into the night. The next morning, it too was on the floor, exhausted of all being, still touching Blue. They were balloons, doing what balloons do. Only more so.

See more of Robert Beck’s work and visit his UWS studio at www.robertbeck.net. Listen to an interview with him on Rag Radio — Here. Let him know at info@westsiderag.com if you have a connection to an archetypical UWS place or event that would make a good West Side Canvas subject. Thank you!

Note: Before Robert Beck started West Side Canvas, his essays and paintings were featured in Weekend Column. See Robert Beck’s earlier columns here and here.

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