The Art of Beautiful Words

I was standing in the grocery store today, waiting for a ridiculously large lunch order at the deli counter.  My personal email had stopped syncing to my phone and I only realized it was a problem at that time because I was looking for the order confirmation to get everyone’s chips and drinks.  When I got the problem corrected, my phone locked up because, of course it did…why wouldn’t it?  That’s just the sort of luck I have.  When the phone unlocked and a flood of emails began populating my screen, I understood why.  It wasn’t just that my phone stopped syncing a day ago; my phone had not synced my personal email account in more than two weeks—I thought my email had been a little quiet, but I had been enjoying it so I didn’t think much of it. 

I scrolled through the mass trying to get back to the top when a name popped up.  It was the name of a bridge I burned quite some time ago and was surprised to see it on the list, so much so that my breath caught in my lungs for longer than it should have.  I convinced myself it was one of those spam viruses that sends out infected links to everyone who has ever been on your email list, and I skipped it to find that deli order.  But curiosity was screaming in my head so I scrolled back down and clicked on the email.  It was already fifteen days old and was a simple note to, “Stay safe in the storm.”  Five words flattened me, the breath stuck in my chest again, and emotions surged through my being.  The last fifteen days since that email was sent had been quite complicated for me.   The end of that friendship was even more complicated.  Five words made me want to cry, to run, to laugh, to smile, to call out, to sink to my knees, to write back…

I didn’t.

As beautiful as those words were, I had none to match them.  So instead of replying, I let the world swirl around me.  I was stuck in time, a thing that does not happen to me often.  I always have some place to go, some thing to do, or some conversations to have; but, at that moment, I was confined to the deli counter.  For the duration of my wait, I simply enjoyed thinking about the beauty of the written word.  I was enthralled at how those particular words brought value back into my existence at a moment when I had been feeling unnecessary in the world.  I was amazed at all the memories and feelings they called back to me—feelings about the friendship specifically, the end of friendships in general, the helplessness of listening to a terrific and terrifying storm tear over my house in the dark of night, the burden of worrying for others whom I was powerless to help, the stress of clean up and the uncertainty for when life would return to normal.  It was a beautiful, awful ten minutes of waiting at the deli counter.

I reveled in the power of words to leave me without words.  I thought of other words which had done the same: poems, stories, text messages, Facebook posts.  Words which had forever changed my life, words which I wish I could share, but would be meaningless and empty to anyone other than myself.  I am an English major who all too often finds herself in this situation.  My grandfather taught me that when I don't know what to say, I should say nothing at all—better to keep quiet and listen, than to speak and offend.  I am not sure it is always the best advice, but it is what I turn to in moments of clouded judgement.

The truth is, I wish I could paint with the same power words have.  But there is too much left to interpret on a canvas.  The most beautiful words have very clear meaning.  Albeit that is a bit of an excuse for poor painting; great artwork is beautiful because it is powerful.

This is an original piece titled Place.  I leave it here not because I think it a particularly beautiful or powerful piece, but because this was very much the swirl of perception in my head as I thought of powerful words today.

Learn From Your Kids

I leave my professional life out of my artistic life.  I am a teacher and being a teacher can overrun your life.  In that role, however, I have the opportunity to work with amazing people everyday and yet some how, I AM the teacher...I am not sure what that is really all about.

I quickly learned that as a "teacher," I did not have much to teach my "students".  Sure, sometimes my years of experience gave me insight on an issue they did not have.   Sometimes my college degrees gave me an upper hand on a subject matter.  But the dynamic in my "classroom" was different because we were all learning from each other.  To that end, I share a room with 150 to 200 great people five days a week.  In that room, we widen our perspectives on issues, expand our understanding of topics, and challenge each other to become better citizens of the world.  So while I may leave my professional life out of my artistic life, I certainly cannot leave the amazing people I have met in that "classroom" out of any aspect of my life.   As much as anything else, this post is in appreciation to one of those people...Jackie.

First, Happy Birthday, Jackie! (Congratulations you didn't die for the last 365 days! #DrewDudley)

Second, THANK YOU, JACKIE! (More about that later.) 

Third, (and the point of this blog post) if you are an aspiring artist of any medium from anywhere in the world, find your own Jackie!  (Seriously,  get your own, you can't have mine.) Jackie is an inspirational, motivational, technological creative marketing guru who believed in me before I even thought I needed someone to believe in me.  This blog, this website exists because of her and she does not even realize she did it--one day she just said, "Hey, we need a website!" and then she helped me figure out how to build one.  One website became two websites, two became three, three became four and four became a blog, a vlog, a podcast, and two online stores.  She pushed me to expand my writing skills into a whole new world of communication with one simple vote of confidence and as an aspiring artist, you need that support!

 Aside from her general awesomeness, Jackie taught me some invaluable lessons (now back to the thank you part).  She taught me that you don't have to walk the tidy path laid out before you just because it is there.   She taught me that it is OK to say no to authority--that authority might not understand you anyways.  She taught me following traditions just because they are traditions is a little silly, you can always make new ones afterall that might be a little bit better.   She taught me to make peace with my own heart.  And she taught me that the people who love you will always love you, because you are the best you that anyone can be.

Right now, Jackie is thinking...I didn't teach you any of that....but, YES YOU DID, JACKIE!

So, I just want to say thank you for making my life better and Happy Birthday!  I love you, Jackie, you mean the world to me!  And everyone needs their own Jackie in their life (no, mine is not available on loan...again...get your own!)

The Smell of Paint

It probably seems a little cliched for an artist to say they love the smell of paint, but really I think it is more a case of what came first, the chicken or the egg?  As far back as I can remember, I have loved the smell of paint: tempera, finger, latex house, craft acrylic, acrylic....PAINT!  Every one of those smells: similar, unique, nostalgic, creative, comfortable, and completely ME!

Tempera paint smells like high school to me.  It was the go-to paint for whipping out posters to get votes for student council elections, homecoming parade floats, and prom decorations.  Somehow I let my friend Pennie talk me into being on the Dance Committee my Junior year.  We painted dozens of Mardi Gras masks in the most obnoxious colors of purple, gold, and green tempera paint we could find.  The art teacher ordered tempera paint for us by the gallons.  By the time prom rolled around, we switched our art factory over to jungle animals: ocelots, chameleons, and macaws.  With tempera staining all the concrete around my house, we slung paint as quickly as our arms could manage so we might find time to buy our dresses and have our hair and nails done.  Even after the acrylic manicure, you could see the pigment stains and smell the tempera chalkiness on my hands.

Maybe the love for paint started for me with finger paints as a toddler, those magical little tubs of primary colors my mom purchased for me from the Dollar Store.  I remember smearing those bright reds, blues, and yellows across the pages of coloring books, notebook paper, and construction paper.  I learned to mix those colors into the secondary and tertiary colors I wanted but that did not exist in finger paints.  Those thick gelatinous colors taught me patience to let them dry and how using too much wrinkled and ruined the paper.  The smell of water, pigment, and slimy wet construction paper faded quickly in a day giving the opportunity to start fresh each day.

My world was so often drenched in the perfume of latex house paint.  My childhood homes were often painted and re-painted.  I was never allowed to use a roller, but as soon as my balance was solid enough to be on a ladder, I was responsible for painting my own room--white at first, until I graduated to rose pink walls with taped-off, paint splattered borders, eventually growing out of my "girly phase," and into powder blue walls with deep blue and cream sponge-painted borders and trim.  My arms, wrists, and hands learned to work a brush and I reeled in the strong scent of the plastic paint for weeks after as I fell asleep in my bed.

My mom always planned some sort of craft project for us over the summers to keep me busy.  One summer, she spent way too much money on all of these little wooden cutouts of farm animals for us to paint.  Bottles of Apple Barrel craft acrylic paint covered our dinning room table.  I did the base coats and she added the details for pigs, horses, cows, dogs, chickens etc.  The project was too quickly finished and I found myself painting Christmas ornaments in July for the school's upcoming craft fair.  Weeks went by with that beautiful pigmented plastic, chalky musk swirling through our dinning room.  That was a good summer (much better than the summer when mom decided to sew our own curtains).

The summer before I left for college, I spent two weeks as a summer camp counselor.  One of the other counselors brought these little pots of pink Liquitex soft body acrylic paint out to decorate the binders for her camp kids.  Of all the paint I smelled growing up, this smell was the keys to the kingdom of all paint in my world.  It looked so PROFESSIONAL!  I painted all 12 of the binders for her just so I could play with that perfect pink paint.  That summer overall was a turning point for me in my life and it was punctuated by the smell of that paint.  Liquitex acrylic is the smell of independence, emotional maturity, responsibility, and the promise of the future for me--all of the things that summer meant.   It is my favorite smell and it takes me back every time to one of my most favorite summers.

Perfume for the perfect summer

This Too Shall Pass

Some days, I just don't feel like much of an artist.  Things I rely upon to move me seem to have moved on from me which leaves me wondering how to get my inspiration back.  The mental block is real.  I often turn to the things I have written about to call the inspiration back: I travel to a new local spot, I spend time in my garden, I talk to family, I cuddle with my cat, I reflect on my students.  

Some times, none of that works.  So I turn to the online community of artists for a pick me up-- their work, their blogs, their studio spaces.  I try blogging to talk myself into a good place.  When none of it works, I know I am in a rough patch and it becomes a matter of waiting...and that waiting can take days, some times longer.

I must find the patience to know that, "This too shall pass."   I have to remind myself of the importance of balance.  Without bad, how could I recognize good?  There must be balance in all things and that means one must know sorrow to be able to name joy; in order to be inspired there must be times of artistic repression.

That does not mean I can allow myself to stop creating in these times.  In fact, these are the times it is most important to create because it helps to push through the repression, it gives me a definitive line between great, inspired works versus paint on a canvas, it allows me to practice technique,  it forces me to try new things, and it is easy to paint over paint, afterall. 

While I am forcing the less-than-creative juices to flow, I ponder how I got myself into the rough patch.  For me, knowing why I am there some how helps me get out of there.  At the moment, a multitude of demands on my time, compounded by a sense of inadequacy and failure have built up to toxic levels and is keeping me from being able to create.

Knowing these things does not resolve my issues, but does help me shine a light on what I am waiting on to pass.  Eventually my work schedule will even out.  I will be able to celebrate some personal successes and the sense of inadequacy and failure will subside.  Inspiration will fire in my fingers and paint will inevitably flow comfortably again soon, because, "This too shall pass."

Waiting out a dry spell with my insanely photogenic cat, Goose.