On Designated Post-Writing Day I wrote a long, rambling post about – well. Not to fall into that trap again, I shall just say, ‘projects’.
As I wandered through my thoughts on this vast matter, it occurred to me that I needed a high-school style ‘subject notebook’, so I could organise my to-do lists by domain.
Damn! That’s actually a REALLY GREAT IDEA!
So I went looking to buy online, but (ahem, here I am, reining myself in again) not liking anything much, I went rummaging through the big box of notebooks we’ve collected over the decades, and there was one that was okay, I guess, if only …
… long story short, I’ve, erm, started a new project. But only a teeny-weeny little one. Honest.
I had a plan about what I was going to do with that board, but when I got the paints out, this is what happened instead. Art is like that; it demands a life of its own, I think. White history and culture is thoroughly imbued with myths of control, which I think leads so many of us to despair. Nothing is in control. The only thing that is, is how you respond. The challenge is to listen, to hone the skills that will allow you to see and honour what is, to let it bloom rather than bolt, without losing yourself. This applies whether it’s a painting, a story, or the child you’re raising. Art reminds me of this hard-learned truth. As a recovering high achiever, I need frequent reminding.
I made a couple of these boards in the lead-up to the party, partly because the space needed some art and partly because I needed to make some myself. That need, for me, is quite visceral, shouting much louder than the need for exercise, for instance. That need comes from my brain, telling me ‘I should’; art comes from a profound craving for colour and line, for play, for something that, however imperfect (and like every one of us, all art is imperfect) pleases my eye and lifts my heart.
I mostly make art in parks and on beaches. Partly just because that’s where I frequently find myself with time on my hands; partly because the materials are there, their curves and colours singing; partly because I love love love the idea of someone else finding it, that moment they realise ‘oh, someone made this’, and smiling; wondering. Maybe looking around. Maybe snapping it. Maybe feeling like they discovered a secret. Maybe not.
I know, there are bound to be kids or dogs who run over them all unseeing, and likely others who wreck just because, while gravity and weather wreak their own damage. It doesn’t matter. Nothing I make is about permanence – that’s a control thing. Rather their time here, like ours, is both beautiful and fleeting – indeed the latter lends meaning to the former.
I don’t expect anyone to see that in anything I create, except perhaps dimly; that’s okay. It’s enough to put it out there, into the world. It is, I’d argue, all we can do with our time here: Listen. Honour. Create. Share.