Katie Darling: An Introduction

When things are darling, they are little, beloved.  The word darling invokes a feeling of something cherished, something loved.  My art comes from that place - the feeling of loving, being loved.  The feeling of adoring something, being adored.  The feeling of understanding something as lovely, being understood as something lovely.  A gift to be cherished.

In my world, I love too much and let it be thus.  I wake up and love the man sleeping next to me, the children in their beds down the hall.  I love the light through the window, the smell of coffee in a quiet house at early dawn.  I love the hugs asked for and freely given.  I love the hearts at my feet.  I love the composition book, the pen.  I love the words that pour out from somewhere deep and true.  I love the window just beyond my art table and the hibiscus he planted for me outside.  I love the photographs of the sky and countless clouds, water, flowers, my children.  They all say “I was here.  I loved.  I was loved.”  Evidence.

I live the ordinary drives through traffic to desk jobs like anyone else.  But I can time travel through music and see whatever I want.  My imagination is wild.  It cannot be conquered.  My car zips through town.  My head is in the clouds, my feet not always on the ground.

I imagine turtle shells with pink houses, ladders to numbered clouds assigned to us.  I imagine the blue paint of a delicate wash, and the koi fish I’ve never even tried to paint, and the outline of a lily pad.  I see it so clearly and it may never ever come alive, but it is in my mind as real as the trucks and the traffic and sky.  Even in the day job, I stop for the butterfly, the snail, the rainbow, the moth, the red leaf, and the heart shaped clouds.  I stopped for a joyful galloping armadillo one morning, too.  Sometimes I gather proof that we were together for a moment, sometimes not.

I love books, and poetry, and color.  I love trees and transoms, and the hardwood floors of old houses.  I love the small streets in historic towns, the sound of horses in the field that smells like my grandfather’s farm when I was a little girl.  I love generosity and the smile of someone you love.  I love photographs taken by children and the eyes of the people looking at them through the lens.

I love books - any kind - but especially those written for children.  When I am lost, I find a library and suddenly I am home.  The curiosity is infinite.  My family can sense this and they help me carry my books.

But the things I love the most I might never share with you only because they are pure and luminous and not even mine to share.  I am the humble bow; they are the light-filled arrows.

You should know I paint from my heart because it beats wild and unceasing - in color (mostly red and pink and gold).  I am both ordinary and extraordinary.  I laugh as much as I cry and I let them both come freely and often.  One night, I made a promise to never ever wish my tender heart away again.  It is who I am.

I am glad you are here.  This is all really just a tribute to wonder.  You can help me build it.  We are better together.  The question is only “How can we ever get up off our knees after bearing witness to it all each day?”

Who are you? 

What do you love? 

How did you find me?

We must be kindred spirits.

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