Creativity and Art

Abbygrrl and the Tree

In an effort to put all of my blog eggs in one basket, I'm republishing this post.  I must begin by saying that there are many mysteries I just accept - like TV signals, the sewer system, and monarch butterflies.  I don’t know how they work, and I don’t need to question why.  But hand me something a little more personal and I'll dissect it into intangible smithereens.  I have always been fascinated by the divine process of creativity.  Not to be confused with divine creationism… if you were to ask me what came first, the chicken or the egg, I would have to reply, "The dinosaur."  But certainly, in its purest form, creativity is divine.  And if you make it your mission to find its source, the most you will come away with is that it comes from 'someplace else.'

Creativity is not reserved for the artist.  Creativity isn't always artistic, and art isn't always creative.  If you've ever been to a Starving Artist sale at the Holiday Inn West, you know what I mean. Anyone who is deeply immersed in the task at hand has experience some level of disconnect from the din of everyday life. Whether you're rebuilding an engine, tending a garden, writing a song or painting the Mona Lisa, your conscious Elvis has left the building.  Welcome to creativity. 

I cannot tell you what that 'someplace else' is, exactly. It could be a universal frequency whose constant hum resonates more or less intensely within each of us.  Or it could be a way to stay connected to the ultimate creator… allowing us to experience that joy on a very human level.  This makes sense as there are times when I step away from my finished art, or from my writing, and feel like I cannot take complete credit for it.  It comes from 'someplace else.'  A similar feeling I had when holding my children for the first time.  How divine.

Sea legs... or clay fingers, to be exact.

sea legs

pl n Informal

1. The ability to adjust one's balance to the motion of a ship, especially in rough seas. 



Fired, glazed, and fired again, these cylinders will be stacked
around a rebar core to create a reed-like form.

Like struggling to put a name on a distant but familiar face, it's slowly coming back to me.  Those closest to me know I have a hard time staying too long with any one medium...  I am prone to artistic bouncing.  With clay, I may have met my match in the true context of the word.

In an open studio you may hear the term, 'coaxing the clay.'  One learns quickly that you are more her partner than her master.  She will never completely yield to you and you must earn her respect. 

While glass is rendered vulnerable and blown into shape, wood is hacked and sanded, metal is melted and hammered... clay is one small step from her point of origin and you've got to meet her on her terms. She is Earth. There isn't a more intimate or humbling relationship with a medium, and this is what draws me in.

Points of Impact

Every now and then life gives you a jolt.  The effect of which is only as intense as your proximity to the point of impact.  In this case the point of impact was at Holmquest Motors Auto Repair, an arm’s length from our beloved studio in Verona.  Don and I were watching the news Friday night when the familiar landscape rolled onto the screen.  “I know that place!  Oh my gosh, I know that place!  It’s right next door!”

From where one stands at any given moment, we are more or less connected to a galaxy alive with points of impact.  A coworker’s chemo, a friend’s unemployment, a sibling’s medical scare, a neighboring business’ fire… ripple outward from the point of impact and travel the emotional distance between yourself and the event.   I am removed from the fire and am not invested enough to absorb much of its impact, but I extend my heart to the mechanics who may have lost their livelihood.  And as with any near misses, I turn my head to breathe a sigh of relief and count my blessings.

The Studio

When Dave first gave me directions to the studio he said, “We are the big yellow building on the right on Bruce Street. The building is marked with a sign that says WOODWORKING or something like that.”

She was easy enough to find with her worn yellow paint, standing amid various cars in transition and free-range weeds. Cosmetically neglected, she juts and pops with additions and subtractions.  A product of function over form, she is a visual history of tenants come and gone and all have left their mark on her bones.

I can see how easily she could be written off, but anyone who spends as much time as me pondering the inner workings of the world would know this… as with any absolute being, her heart is tucked on the inside.

This is a place where art is born.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

This should be a harmless enough question. For the first twelve years of my life the answer hovered above me in complete clarity. I aspired to be an artist like I aspired to breathe.

Many Sundays in my early childhood were spent at my grandpa’s house with my father’s extended family. My dad is the fourth of five boys. Much like a dog whistle emits a pitch only dogs can hear, my eldest two uncles emitted bad energy only young children could sense. If we ever had to pass by either of them on our way to ‘point B,’ my siblings and I would literally hug the opposite wall in an effort to avoid coming near them within grabbing distance.

It was one of these uncles who stepped in front of me one Sunday and asked the question, “So… what do you want to be when you grow up?” I answered, “An artist.”

My uncle snickered, “You can’t be an artist, you’ll never make any money!”

In the physics experiment that is my life, this one seemingly minor verbal ‘tap’ knocked me off course for a very long time.

Paternal family web aside, it was my father who encouraged me to paint murals around my childhood home… a giant rooster in the hen house, my eight foot tall rendition of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” in the barn, a less successful river scene on the spare tire cover of our conversion van. To his credit, he recognized my artistic flicker even if I didn’t recognize it in myself.

Toss into the mix one really dynamic high school psychology teacher and the graduated result will be an artist in a psychology major’s clothing. A baggy fit to say the least, but I didn’t see it. In my adult life the urge to make art seeped into all kinds of unlikely and wonderful places, but I still didn’t believe I was an artist. It wasn’t until last year at the age of 44 that the veil lifted. Shame be gone… I have returned to the embrace of my true self. The Prodigal Artist.

Note on the posted picture: This is part of a piece I drew in college. The kids in the back are the two aforementioned uncles frolicking behind a starving child. I have a theory that most young artists lack the life experience to expose the deeper message without being COMPLETELY obvious.