"You don't buy paintings to blend in with the sofa."

 

"Get in here," I hollered. "There's great art in here and it's CHEAP!"

Bob was pacing on the sidewalk outside a shop in some little town in Michigan. He was being very nice about letting me wander in and out of shops, and it was a pretty day out so he didn't mind waiting outside. We had discussed shopping for original art on our short trip, because we both love original pieces and have been wanting to slowly grow our collection. I thought I had struck gold.

It was exactly the type of boutique I love. Lots of variety, something for everyone, and the prices were decent. You had the usual touristy shwag, but a little more elevated than the tee shirt shops. Housewares, jewelry, home decor, fashion, you name it they had it. But the big draw for me was finding some original pieces of art that weren't break-the-bank expensive. 

Bob and I started flipping through one bin of prints and I was oohing and ahhing, but when I looked at him I had my answer: not his style. "A little modern for my taste," he said. It was fine, he does have a more traditional taste in art, but we have things that appeal more to his taste or mine, and as my mother once told me: fill your house with things you love and it always goes together. 

But then it happened. We were the only patrons left in the shop, and the owner decided to start talking. A lot. She told us that next week she'd be swapping everything in the store out for Christmas, and then launched into a tour around the store telling us her ideas for great gifts for anyone on my list. "Like this little soap dish with a couple of handmade soaps makes a wonderful gift. This crafted pitcher with some pure maple syrup and maybe this cute towel. I just love helping people come up with cute ideas for gifts! Like this lamp, well this is for someone you really love because it's kind of expensive..."

At this point I glanced over at Bob and his eyes got big. They said, "Let's get out of here." But, I was not leaving without some art from this place. He practically belly crawled to the door.

I actually had a nice conversation with this woman when I relaxed into it. I just let her keep talking while I chose two really great paintings made on pages from old cookbooks, mounted on matt board. They were the perfect size for two frames I had at home (they are now hanging in the kitchen and look amazing). 

That's when she told me that she was the artist. All the original paintings in the store were hers. She told me she made her work intentionally affordable because she believes life is better with real art. "I 100% agree with you," I told her. She asked if I was an artist, and I said, "well, not like you're an artist." She asked me what kind of art I did, what was my medium, and I started to feel a bit embarrassed.  But she kept sort of picking at that scab, and I told her things like mixed media, tramp art, some drawing, a little painting, but that I hadn't done anything in a long time. There were then lots of words about an upcoming festival and she was inviting other artists to show with her, and if I was interested to think about it. That's when I just wanted this to be over, so I thanked her, said I would think about it, finally paid for my paintings, and got out of there.

But ever since then I have been thinking: why don't I do art any more?

The next day, we walked through an art park in a woods, full of amazing sculptures of metal, wood, mixed materials. It was a lovely two mile walk, and we almost had the place to ourselves. We talked about the artwork, some we liked, some we didn't, some we didn't quite understand. None of these pieces were particularly "inspiration" for me, I mean I can't see myself taking up welding, metallurgy, or making wood sculptures with an axe. And yet, it was art.

When we got back from the trip I thought, okay I will just decide that I'm going to "make art." So I sat down with some paper, some markers and crayons and pencils and stuff, and tried to "make art." And it was pretty wretched. Not creative, not pretty, and not making me happy. I threw it all in a closet and slammed the door. That is why I don't do it, I thought: I am not good at this. What ever made me think I was? Why did I ever think I could be an artist, I'm not. 

Yet there was some part of me that wasn't willing to let this go. After all, the paintings I bought in a shop in Michigan were created by a very talkative woman who may or may not have had training and it didn't matter. They were lovely, abstract little paintings, not hanging in a national museum, just ready to hang in my kitchen. Why couldn't I do that?

After a bit of discovery and some soul searching, I discovered several things that were making it hard for me to create anything I loved.

I realized that I was starting out by thinking of the end product, the framed drawing or painting, and how it would look in the room. Right down to the colors I would use that would coordinate with the decor. When this dawned on me I was reminded of a great quote in the Woody Allen film "Hannah and Her Sisters." Max von Sydow plays Frederick, a fine artist. He is introduced to a client named Dusty who informs him that he'll need to check with his decorator before making a purchase. Frederick tells him, "This is degrading. You don't buy paintings to blend in with the sofa!" Dusty replies, "It's not a sofa - it's an ottoman."

I was being Dusty. 

I had sucked all the life out of the creative process and was just wanting to manufacture something. And let's face it, there's plenty of manufactured art out there. But this is what chatty shop lady and I agreed on: original art can enhance our lives in a way that commercial art usually can't. That's why deep down this is important to me. I want to get in on the creation.

But the reality was that when I sat down to create something I was taking it all very seriously. And I wasn't having any fun. In fact, it was leading to more negative self-talk and fueling my ingrained impostor syndrome. No art I do will make a museum or a show. No art I create will be seen as beautiful. All my stuff is rank amateur compared to real artists. Just stop thinking you can do this.

What dawned on me then was: what difference does it make? Who cares if nothing I sketch, paint, or collage ever makes it on a single wall in my house? What if instead of thinking I have to produce a masterpiece, I just play? What if doodling could actually be fun? Maybe a crappy doodle could inspire me to do something else? What if my sketch pads or canvases became my secret garden? Could I treat this as a way of journaling without words -- or better yet, with words? What if instead of getting frustrated that something didn't look quite right, I got curious and just tried stuff? Nobody but me has to see it. Nobody but me needs to even know about it. 

I flipped through a couple of sketch pads I have had for a while, just looking at things I had drawn in the past. And with this less serious thought process, some things I was critical of before seemed just fine. 

So here I am today, with a little doodle pad on my desk and when I need a tiny mind shift I just doodle. Faces, shapes, words, funny wobbly cartoons of strange things and people. I'm not thinking much about it, I'm just letting my mind and my pen wander. And it's refreshing. Utterly nothing more may come of this, and I think I'm okay with that. I have a great creative outlet in writing, but I do like other expressions, and this particular one has been ignored and beat down for too long.

Part of what has made this so prominent for me recently is that our week of prayer in the 19th annotation last week was on God's ongoing creation. I have often said that God created creativity. He did, and he actually invites us humans to participate in that. Humans get to make more humans, if he wills it. We get to create homes, jokes, and cookies. We get to make art if we want to, and I don't think God cares much if it's a stick figure or a gallery piece. We could even make something that he might find "very good."