I found a magazine that beautifully showcased artful blogging. There was eye candy for the artistically appreciative everywhere. I read it and was entranced. And inspired. And immediately resolved… resolved to gather momentum in my own blogging endeavor. Seize the artsy day. Pack beauty into my life. Take on more projects, be non-stop creative (with giddy abandon), and write great things. With amazing pictures. Twice a week (rather than my customary once-or-twice a month).
But I’m pretty sure it’s been past a week since I was so resolved, and this is my first blog entry in all those days, if we count my announcement of Cynthia’s guest blog. Until today, I hadn’t started (let alone completed) any projects, though I have eaten a lot of plums. I want to do so many things and I have so little time for any of them. Yes, yes, I know– it’s a common, almost not-worth-mentioning quandary–but in my case, it is exacerbated by the fact that when I do have time (Two Whole Hours In a Row! oh joy oh rapture), I have a panic attack, wondering frantically which of all my creative passions I should choose to indulge. Knowing that once I decide, there’s this crazy pressure to Not Waste Time and to Achieve Perfection, because after all, I May Never Pass This Way Again. Which I know sounds absurd . Let me tell you how such craziness brews. Perhaps in the telling, I will at last experience a paradigm-shifting epiphany: My hand-wringing days in the face of creative opportunity will be over, and I will at last be mistress not only of myself, but of serenity in general, and my household, studio, and pretty blue objects specifically.
First. One morning this summer I went running in Pendleton, Oregon. In town; my parents live in the wilderness outskirts where there are regular cougar sightings. I didn’t want to wake my sister to run with me so early (besides the fact that our companionship is lopsided; she is a much better protectress than I am). So I ran up and down the hilly streets of a particularly sweet, safe neighborhood, alone. All the houses were aged and interesting. Many peered down at me from far above the street, like well preserved old ladies in very high heels. There were adventurous front gardens spilling over basalt and concrete retaining walls, sedums and lavender and daisies almost at eye level. It all made me very happy–so happy, in fact, that suddenly I was filled with an overwhelming desire to rescue old, neglected houses, to make them lovely again and plant gardens around them. Like, maybe… maybe, Maybe I was born to flip houses! With charm and grace.
I could do it. Here in my city, a program offers grants for renovations in the older (and more interesting to me) part of town. I could acquire old houses (don’t ask me how); I could fix them up. I have an eye for design. I love researching and deciding on products. I have house building experience. I miss my tenuous connection with construction culture (ah, tool belts! and sawdust and trucks and colorful curses). I could write about my experiences on my blog, develop a house makeover portfolio (along with everything else) on my website. I felt euphoric at the prospect.
The weeks ticked by, and I gave it more thought. While I still felt euphoric about house rescuing, I couldn’t quite picture what I would do with the houses once I’d finished. Renting them out would risk damage to my creations; selling would be like giving up a child. Keeping them would be ridiculous; that would make me a house collector. I don’t even collect stamps or spoons; why would I collect houses? But especially, I don’t have capital to invest even in one initial attempt, let alone a string of projects.
I haven’t given up on the idea though. I can’t; I love it too well. It is still a dream, simmering. Waiting.
Meanwhile. Several years ago, an idea for a novel occurred to me. It would be a love story. Not a bodice-ripper, definitely not. Anyone can rip bodices (those flimsy little things). I would not write thinly veiled seduction. Nor prim, nor silly, nor self-consciously-modest-but-actually-escapist fantasy. My love story would be astoundingly literary, managing to make people think and laugh and cry and wonder, all at the same time. I thought I knew how such love stories go, that I was both observant and wise, that I’d seen and experienced enough to be apt. But I’ve since learned that really, I have no idea. I am not wise or knowing. I have no patent love answers. I’m not sure, if I were to write my story, how the conflict would ever come to a plausible resolution. That any reader could be anything more than annoyed with the heroine.
I keep the notion nevertheless. I think about it a lot. I’m hoping that love stories don’t have to be written by people with patent answers. after all. I suspect that most good books have unbelievable resolutions. I just need more time…
Here’s another one. This summer I invested my efforts (oil painting) in an art show. When it was over, I was more determined than ever to create great art. But also in the aftermath, I encountered a conundrum: I want it all. I want to paint like Sargent: glowing realism, painterly strokes. I want to paint like Cassatt, intuitive and natural. And like Vermeer and Manet, beguiling form with light. I want my own version of Chagall’s whimsical, crazy, colorful goats and guitars and lovers, and Van Gogh’s weird and oddly serene Starry Night. I want it all, but when I puzzle over how to attempt it, I am paralyzed. Even if I have a great strategy, I can’t make it all happen in a rare, two hour stack. Especially when I cannot think of how to start.
Still, I have beautiful things to share, and I will.
I could go on about my occasional jewelry making ambitions, how I’ve gradually collected rocks and stones that wait to become art in envelopes and bags and on strings. My kids like to find them stashed in my night stand, trying desperately to fit in with other random accessories stowed there. I keep thinking someday I’ll make necklaces that remind us of the Oregon coast.
I could wander with you into my dingy realm of furniture rehabilitation intentions. I think I’ve mentioned my ghastly pink thrift store chairs—they have waited a year for new clothes, are still waiting. So is the fabric I bought to recover them with.
But when I think of sewing furniture slip covers, my thoughts drift to people covers. I’ll be honest. I really, really want to design my own fashions. Break free of McCall’s and Vogue and come up with something nonpareil. Slightly flower girl, sort of Jackie O, a little gypsy-bohemian, definitely intelligent. Could I do stunning minimalism? I don’t know. Recently I shared an intriguing conversation with our dentist’s receptionist. She chatted with me in conspiratorial tones while the oral surgeon waited (a little exasperated) behind her chair (he even grudgingly and with a mild eye roll answered the phone for her, reaching over her shoulder to pick up the receiver). She designs and makes her own jewelry, and has designed her own clothing line. She does look fabulous; if she designs clothes like she paints her fingernails, she’s got it made. She is sewing a wedding dress from several thrift store finds (torn apart, re-assembled). Which, once she finishes with the beading, she will wear when she renews her wedding vows with her husband in a few months.
Another friend told me how to make my own manikin by swathing myself first in plastic wrap, then in packing tape over the wrap. Once I was entirely swathed, I would slit the back so I could get out and stuff the resulting form (like a large rag doll, or a boxing dummy) and decorate it. Ah, decorate. Too much fun. Papier mache from discarded sheet music… I could make manikins for Michaelyn, and Maurya, and Meisha too.
So as I’m fingering dress material and considering the juxtaposition of patterns, I’m distracted by thoughts of weeds cropping up outside in my newly planted borders. We’ve hired a very nice guy to install sprinklers just for the lawn areas; he has transplanted two of my lavenders in the process. One of his guys crushed a coreopsis; that’s ok. He didn’t mean to, it was a little under grown anyway. But I need to weed. It is not smart to neglect weeds.
And it is not smart to neglect the desire to create, even if I only have two hours. And so, with my precious two hours today, I painted –a paint on burlap study of an amorous Grandpa kissing Grandma. Stealing sugar. It’s not Sargent or Cassatt or Vermeer or even Van Gogh; it’s just a study. I’ll do it again tomorrow, better and bigger hopefully. But I’m glad for the two hours of happy imperfection, at last, today.
*(I’ll post the study here at the bottom of this entry tomorrow…haven’t taken a pic of it and the light is terrible tonight).
