My journey had its many ups and downs, but one thing remained constant. The creativity that literally crafted my identity was gone.Truly, I fought with myself for years over this. Yes, right before I found out I was pregnant with Amelie I stretched a thirteen foot canvas I had intended to be the center piece of a triptych -- but here's the deal -- even by that point I felt my "talent" disappearing. So I secretly blamed motherhood for the loss of my creativity.
Feeling that --that thing-- that one thing that has made you you your entire life-- to feel it simply die is gut wrenching, and for me it happened slowly. Like I said in the previous post, I was born with a crayon. My earliest memory drawing something was guess what? An eye. I think it was about fourth grade, and at that time these gals I drew always had on purple and blue eyeshadow. Truly my last memory of drawing freely --being completely and utterly free-- was one night in my apartment on via XX Settembre in Florence, during my first semester.
I'm a nightowl. That is a trait I have always blamed on my Sweet and Precious Grandmother Taylor who, even into her late 80's, would stay up until at least one am. She just did. For me, that's when my creativity would just pour out of me. And on this night in Florence, I taped a long row of heavy, cream colored, medium texture paper to the walls, got out my vine charcoal, my pressed coal, and my burnt red and white Conte crayons and for hours and hours I drew.
Furiously I drew, free handed I created one of the most stunning profiles I've ever done. That was, by three am, a night for Tori Amos, my huge Koss headphones and I. It was a night the exaggerated arias upon which I pitched my soul rang with the exact purpose of penetrating the recesses of a heart that simply ached. It was in her voice I could search the corridors of that heart. That was the night I felt I went To Venus and Back.
Frequently I would step back and review my work. So began the dance as I dug my bare feet into the marble floor to literally brace myself and wage a war as my arms would delve in and that charcoal would grate that paper. The grit fell to floor like sheets of chiffon, into little piles and peaks that resembled a spilled bag of bittersweet chocolate chips. My work that night was bittersweet. It was the one night in Florence I remember being enveloped in the cushioned, angsty groans of Tori's throat, a night I laid down all the aesthetic harmony I could muster for the very last, most gut wrenchingly honest time.
Again and again I would pause to step back and review where my furor had taken me, what was shaded too heavily, what needed more or less. I would draw with the charcoal, smear with a finger, rub with the side of my hand, drag the coal down the page with my forearm, then extract lines and draw with my eraser. Erase. Redo. Realize I didn't have any clean skin left and then would use my clothes as a towel, so the ridges of my fingerprints would be clean enough to grab any remaining coal. It was the furor divinus described by Plato. During the last two minutes of the song my entire body would crash into her crescendo as I drew, my head would throb and tick to the staccato of her screams and beat of the drums as inwardly I composed the condition of my literal soul. She could scream for me in places I did not know hurt. But what I didn't know was I had an audience.
Of the two roomates I had, the blond one had been watching me for something like thirty minutes or more as I "sang" what must have been an awful noise, dipping down, swingin, goin to town on that papered wall I would later have to erase, and I had no clue. I'm sure I looked utterly insane, particularly to this poor gal, who had no studio experience whatsoever. It was impossible to tell I turned ten shades of red simply because my hands were solid black from the charcoal and every time I'd step back I'd put my hands on my chin, my forehead, my arms ,where ever. I'm sure I looked awesome in that very moment.
What a pair. Tori Amos, a preacher's kid, and me, lookin like a coal miner's daughter.
Those were some of my best pieces that first semester. I am thankful for these photos, for they are all that remain of that portfolio-- it was stolen, minutes before my final exam. I hadn't even signed them yet. Most of the drawings were that fresh.
What I find most ironic is that it was prior to college my artwork flourished. I showed in galleries. I sold my work. I painted murals. Yet, college killed me. I turned academic.
I began to think too much and in that I began to doubt myself.
I tried a myriad of solutions to make it better--even going back to school. Yet every time I would even pick up a pencil, I'd feel the need for a crutch, and then -- every time -- would be disappointed. Everyone could see it in me, and everyone else was pleased with what I did make, but I never liked any of it.
In the last five years my will began to crumble, and I began a myriad of self help books. Self help audio. Self help this and self help that. One thing I've learned folks: One can only help oneself so much. Eventually there's nowhere to go. You can't lean on people, because people are people and people let you down. You can't depend on you, because you let you down. So, I determined I was going to do whatever was necessary to get back to it and I happened upon The Artist's Way. Lo and behold, it was even spiritual. It included concepts like prayer. Positive thinking. But most importantly, and I somehow knew, it was merely served to open a door to something much larger than myself.
I didn't get very far.
During week two I took myself on the required artist date and went to Half Price Books There I purchased a lovely vintage book I could then creatively desecrate and finally tune into my long standing desire to turn a book into an art journal. This book was perfect. I knew I couldn't draw. I knew I wanted to draw -- I was going to make a conquest of this, this thing, this block. I wanted me back. At the time, all I knew of my problem was my love of the Renaissance standard was in the way. This book fit perfectly into my scheme, quite simply because it is about the very root of the Renaissance: The Greeks.
Late at night, during my second round of this creative chemo, something came over me. I had just finished drawing my own hand -- the most basic assignment of any art class.
It was ubiquitous and it was all I could do to get a pen and paper fast enough before the words left my ever loving mind.
It was the sheer weight of my first revelation:
Florence.
Feeling that --that thing-- that one thing that has made you you your entire life-- to feel it simply die is gut wrenching, and for me it happened slowly. Like I said in the previous post, I was born with a crayon. My earliest memory drawing something was guess what? An eye. I think it was about fourth grade, and at that time these gals I drew always had on purple and blue eyeshadow. Truly my last memory of drawing freely --being completely and utterly free-- was one night in my apartment on via XX Settembre in Florence, during my first semester.
I'm a nightowl. That is a trait I have always blamed on my Sweet and Precious Grandmother Taylor who, even into her late 80's, would stay up until at least one am. She just did. For me, that's when my creativity would just pour out of me. And on this night in Florence, I taped a long row of heavy, cream colored, medium texture paper to the walls, got out my vine charcoal, my pressed coal, and my burnt red and white Conte crayons and for hours and hours I drew.
Furiously I drew, free handed I created one of the most stunning profiles I've ever done. That was, by three am, a night for Tori Amos, my huge Koss headphones and I. It was a night the exaggerated arias upon which I pitched my soul rang with the exact purpose of penetrating the recesses of a heart that simply ached. It was in her voice I could search the corridors of that heart. That was the night I felt I went To Venus and Back.
Frequently I would step back and review my work. So began the dance as I dug my bare feet into the marble floor to literally brace myself and wage a war as my arms would delve in and that charcoal would grate that paper. The grit fell to floor like sheets of chiffon, into little piles and peaks that resembled a spilled bag of bittersweet chocolate chips. My work that night was bittersweet. It was the one night in Florence I remember being enveloped in the cushioned, angsty groans of Tori's throat, a night I laid down all the aesthetic harmony I could muster for the very last, most gut wrenchingly honest time.
Again and again I would pause to step back and review where my furor had taken me, what was shaded too heavily, what needed more or less. I would draw with the charcoal, smear with a finger, rub with the side of my hand, drag the coal down the page with my forearm, then extract lines and draw with my eraser. Erase. Redo. Realize I didn't have any clean skin left and then would use my clothes as a towel, so the ridges of my fingerprints would be clean enough to grab any remaining coal. It was the furor divinus described by Plato. During the last two minutes of the song my entire body would crash into her crescendo as I drew, my head would throb and tick to the staccato of her screams and beat of the drums as inwardly I composed the condition of my literal soul. She could scream for me in places I did not know hurt. But what I didn't know was I had an audience.Of the two roomates I had, the blond one had been watching me for something like thirty minutes or more as I "sang" what must have been an awful noise, dipping down, swingin, goin to town on that papered wall I would later have to erase, and I had no clue. I'm sure I looked utterly insane, particularly to this poor gal, who had no studio experience whatsoever. It was impossible to tell I turned ten shades of red simply because my hands were solid black from the charcoal and every time I'd step back I'd put my hands on my chin, my forehead, my arms ,where ever. I'm sure I looked awesome in that very moment.
What a pair. Tori Amos, a preacher's kid, and me, lookin like a coal miner's daughter.
Those were some of my best pieces that first semester. I am thankful for these photos, for they are all that remain of that portfolio-- it was stolen, minutes before my final exam. I hadn't even signed them yet. Most of the drawings were that fresh.What I find most ironic is that it was prior to college my artwork flourished. I showed in galleries. I sold my work. I painted murals. Yet, college killed me. I turned academic.
I began to think too much and in that I began to doubt myself.
I tried a myriad of solutions to make it better--even going back to school. Yet every time I would even pick up a pencil, I'd feel the need for a crutch, and then -- every time -- would be disappointed. Everyone could see it in me, and everyone else was pleased with what I did make, but I never liked any of it.
In the last five years my will began to crumble, and I began a myriad of self help books. Self help audio. Self help this and self help that. One thing I've learned folks: One can only help oneself so much. Eventually there's nowhere to go. You can't lean on people, because people are people and people let you down. You can't depend on you, because you let you down. So, I determined I was going to do whatever was necessary to get back to it and I happened upon The Artist's Way. Lo and behold, it was even spiritual. It included concepts like prayer. Positive thinking. But most importantly, and I somehow knew, it was merely served to open a door to something much larger than myself.
I didn't get very far.
During week two I took myself on the required artist date and went to Half Price Books There I purchased a lovely vintage book I could then creatively desecrate and finally tune into my long standing desire to turn a book into an art journal. This book was perfect. I knew I couldn't draw. I knew I wanted to draw -- I was going to make a conquest of this, this thing, this block. I wanted me back. At the time, all I knew of my problem was my love of the Renaissance standard was in the way. This book fit perfectly into my scheme, quite simply because it is about the very root of the Renaissance: The Greeks.
Late at night, during my second round of this creative chemo, something came over me. I had just finished drawing my own hand -- the most basic assignment of any art class.
It was ubiquitous and it was all I could do to get a pen and paper fast enough before the words left my ever loving mind.
It was the sheer weight of my first revelation:
Florence.
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