How a mural happens

The mural process?

"How did you think of it?" my friends ask. "Does it have a spiritual meaning? The vine and the branches (John 15)? The tree planted by living water (Psalm 1)?"

No. Creative stuff happens in my world. Randomly. In bursts of energy, music, and/or color - which is why we have this mural.

My first attempt at a project or art form will typically mean making something big or audacious ... because I don't know if I want to do it twice. What if I hate it and the process feels like drudgery rather than fun? Better to have something worth keeping (or giving away) than fooling around with little samples. I'd rather perfect a skill by tackling another project, from another angle.

As you can imagine, I try a lot of big things. Have big failures and big fun, along with some keepers. For me, art is rarely planned. It happens along the way.

When we rented this house (7 years ago), we noticed the gorgeous guava tree beside the porch. The bark? Heart-stopping. I sit outside, staring. 

The vines and monstera leaves on the jackfruit tree take my breath away. I shoot picture after picture. 

Who wouldn't be inspired by grottos like this one, spotted on a walk last week?

Our garden is a jubilant mess. I look with astonishment and wonder around the yard: guava, citrus, mangosteen, papaya, jackfruit, durian, and melinjo trees thrive. The blackberries, mango, roses, curling and clinging vines, and false philodendron are always being chopped back. God lavishes splendor on us year-round.

Houseplants are a no-no because they attract bugs. The soil is perfect for ant and roach nests. Plus, all those plants thrive outside; God waters them in rainy season and the helpers water them in dry season.

When we moved into the house, I thought: “There are a lot of walls. What will we do with them?” We painted walls and ceilings white and hung IKEA Mosslanda ledges around the main room. Those served as picture rails for 6 years. (Of course the art moves around - that's why it's not nailed to the walls.)

Then, 2 years ago, I walk by the nook off the entry: “Nice white wall. How about a mural to bring the garden in?” One morning, I measure the nook. The space above the ledge is 86"X52" (about 2.5X1.5 meters). 

"Let's start something." I take the artwork off the ledge and grab a fat green Sharpie marker from my desk. How about outlines? I draw free form leaves.

I check for paint ... somewhere there are Golden acrylic samples from the Daniel Smith store. The little bag has no browns or greens - only 2 blues, 2 yellows, and a dark red (alizarin). That's enough to start.

"Let’s see what happens.” I don't have a brush big enough for the wall. Rummaging around under the kitchen sink, I find a foam sponge. I wash a layer of blue water on the walls.

Adding yellows to the blues makes a variety of greens. Brown emerges in the tray after the blue-yellow-greens are almost used up. (Add Alizarin = watch all kinds of golden browns show up. Woo-ee!)

It is a rough mess: paint drips down the paster wall. The plaster sucks up the paint unevenly.

I like it.

I wipe paint off the ledge, floor, and myself ... with a note to self: "Use less water on the sponge next time. And buy a real sponge, not this awful cheap foam." I never get around to it. I paint with it until the mural is done. Sigh.

Over the months, when I see a "jungle" photo or wallpaper I like, I ask why it captures my attention. Somewhere, I acquire a 2" house painter brush. One day, I mix colors again and begin to fill the wall.

It sits, washed out and resting, for over a year. 

At Christmas, it provides a bright backdrop for paintings and twinkle lights - a nice seating area.

I find a hanging shelf for $22 on an expat sale site. W says, “Where’s that going?! The house is full.” True.

Hmmm. It fits the nook. Is it time to finish the mural? I take the paintings off the ledge again and let the shelf sit on the edge of the table for a bit. It's in the way. I get tired of ducking under it, which is positive pressure to get 'er done.

When I find a tube of cheap green acrylic paint left over from a community event, I squeeze paint straight from the tube onto the wall for a vine. 

Stepping back to look at how much is left to do, it seems the tree limbs disappear into nothing. What? The whole thing just looks weird. And there's no focal point.

I find a leaf photo and paint one main leaf from it.

A few more lines, a few more glazes. Almost there? It's going behind a shelf so it can be rough.

What else does it need? I find a smaller brush and the original paint tubes, remix colors, and outline a few more leaves with the green Sharpie.

We search the house for props to hold the shelf at the right height. A step-ladder. A tripod. Table on table. A tray on table on table. It's complicated but we finally decide how high to install it.

W hangs the shelf on the wall.

Ugh. Flat white support slats? We take the shelf down again so I can paint them out. More mixing and smearing paint to banish the white wood. And I can't resist - more color, more glazes, more Sharpie definition. Enough already. Stop.

I clean the tray and brushes and put the paints away while we wait for the whole mess to dry. W screws the shelf into the ‘invisible’ supports - and I put stuff on the shelves. Happy.

All that to say, I had no spiritual intention beyond “Here's a wall."

I sometimes feel overwhelmed by our tropical setting. My heart beats with awe at Indonesia's beauty, so this was probably my soul’s instinctive expression of worship.

And that's how a mural happens.