So, I’m sitting on the dock this sunny Sunday morning. My son is attending the last day of a three-day Aikido seminar here at the local YMCA’spremier campground. Once the martial artists hit the mat in the building behind me — I could hear the communal convocation clap way down here by the lake — I am alone. Except for one friendly, nerdy straggler who couldn’t resist a snapshot of the goose that has been showing off , taking off and landing on the shimmering blue lake surface all morning.
It is one of those mornings where one finds joy in the act of simply being alive. One feels compelled to come up with some larger, metaphysical truths but that attempt is mostly doomed to fail.
I have been an artist all week. I started out intending to make a little piece of something for my bedroom. Nothing much; just something to match the black and white color scheme. Which is almost like wanting a “sofa-sized painting.” From that modest beginnings my project has grown so that the UPS guy must think I’ve developed a crush on him.. He comes around every couple of days with a fat parcel of art supplies.
My tall work table that was intended to be our homeschool desk has been transformed into an artist’s work table. I scrounge around for unused plastic bins and boxes so I can organize my supplies. As if I were a serious artist, one whose pencils and glues and stamp pads needed a permanent home. Nothing like the handmade book I halfway bound, or the skeins of yarn stuffed in a tote bag in the corner.
But, I felt fired up in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time. DareI say, it has made me happy after a very long time of feeling sad.
I’m working on collages, and I can tell a difference in my work from when I started a few weeks ago and work I’m doing now. It was hard to remember how to be creative, but once I began, the juices flowed freely.
The last few days, though, I began to be frustrated. New ideas slowed down. I started feeling guilty over all the money I’ve spent on supplies. The sticky mess at my table began to bug me. Some of the things I tried didn’t work and had to be scrapped. Every piece I’d done — even those that were my favorites at the time — have some little flaw or another. My work can be sloppy and rough. I don’t let glue and varnish dry long enough. All my collages curl rather than lay flat. I remember that I’ve had other enthusiasms before and they’ve all amouunted to nothing. What I am doing now is not productive in any way that can be seen or measured. My work isn’t good enough to sell. If I were to take an art class to try and better my skills, I wouldn’t want to do it anymore. I like experimenting blindly. That’s part of the thrill. But, it’s a little self-defeating also. It’s as if I want to keep myself just below the competent level.
Leave it up to me to be tormented by a hobby.