November 6, 2015 § Leave a comment
“Operating from the emotional reality of a child”
That’s what I said Monday night to a group of people who get together once a week to talk about becoming their own parents.
A piece of me is trapped. Back there in that classroom, in the corner of the play yard, locked in the bathroom, scrambling over the fence to get away from them.
The scapegoat. The fat one. The one that everybody picked on, the odd man out. The one that wouldn’t play sports, the one who locked herself in the art room because she couldn’t face the lunch room.
Kiddo, i’m not quite sure how to get you out of there yet, but I’m working on it. But first, please, I need you to stop driving the car. You really aren’t old enough.
Please take this whip from me.
Please take this voice that says I’m not good enough, strong enough.
Please take this voice that says I’m not lovable, really. That I’m just fooling myself.
Please take this whip from me.
“We admitted we were powerless over the effects of alcoholism or other family dysfunction, that our lives had become unmanageable.”
November 3, 2015 § 1 Comment
I can’t begin to tell you how oddly relieving this is. My degree is in Fine Arts, an extended major in Painting & Cast Metals. I also had enough credits in Photography and Ceramics…
I’ve attempted to make a Christmas wreath three years in a row now.
It always winds up this haphazardness of intention – nothing like the beauty I see on Pinterest, or other such pernicious websites.
I was on the phone with Mom a week ago when I revealed my revelation. Her response was, “oh my god, there’s something you can’t do?!”
Yep. There’s something I can’t do. My work is in a museum collection, I’ve been represented by several galleries, I’m in countless private collections…
There is a limit, and I found it. And, somehow, it is such a relief. I think, most of all, it’s a relief just to admit it. Being on the planet these days where my main priority doesn’t have a paintbrush in my hand makes me a little crazy. I have a creative self that still wants to be kept in the business somehow.
Limits… Admitting that there is something I can’t do makes me admit that there is something that I can do – and I should be doing it.
People think that being an artistic creative type is such a magical thing. The truth is, there is this unbearable drive to make beauty that doesn’t pay the rent or balance the checkbook. It’s such an intangible urging that ultimately has very little value in contemporary living.
And so, my experience has been this: put down the paintbrush to pay the bills. To live my life. But then, I’m always hauling home this project or that project. Yes, I can repair and reupholster that old morris chair abandoned on the side of the road. Yes, I can repair, resize, and alter that fabulous piece of clothing that someone was going to throw away. Yes, I can take that piece of scrap wood home and turn it into something fabulous.
Then the next thing I know I’m coming home from work, exhausted, and I can’t rest because all I can see are all of these projects around the house that need tending to. All of this really great potential.
Limits. I could say no. I could stop dragging all of this junk home and start making time to put pen to paper. I could stop dragging all of this junk home and pay attention to the fact that it is imperative that I make the time and space to do what I do best, and quit trying to make fucking Christmas wreaths.