Closet Artist (volume 3)

The first time I brought a piece of art to class that wasn’t mine it felt good. It can be exhilerating to bask in the praise of admirers.  That is, until you stop and think for a moment.  Then your conscience begins to eat away at you for claiming the credit for doing something you never did. Or being someone you no longer are.  I used to be real.  Maybe my work was amateur.  My technique flawed.  Maybe I was never really an artist at all, but at least I was real. 

Initially the borrowed art seemed to alleviate some of the pressure to deliver. But  I soon learned that my newfound coping mechanism brought pressures of its own.  I had unknowingly raised the bar for what I could share. After presenting works of accomplished artists, my own work was less suitable than ever.  I missed not being able to bring my own thoughts and ideas to people.  Although I had never thought I was worthy of it, I also missed the sincere praise that my work had brought me in earlier days.  The praise I was receiving these days only brought pangs of guilt to my heart. I was in constant terror of being discovered.  I wanted it gone.  I wanted to return to my own painting.  And I wanted to be me.  

The guilt and unrest intensified until I knew I couldn’t live like this any longer.  A choice had to be made.  My options were clear:  I could either keep on bringing the fakes to class and perpetuate the cycle of guilt and inadequacy I had placed on myself, or I could raise my standards, improve my own work and eventually reclaim my initial standing as an authentic, if flawed, artist.  The last remaining choice would be to come clean altogether, to admit what I had done and to begin bringing my own feeble attempts back to class.  To me, the latter wasn’t really a viable option. I had see the criticism afforded amateurs in their absence. After my dishonesty, mine would be a double dose. I couldn’t face the humiliation.

The safest way for me to return to normalcy seemed to be to combine the first two options. I continued to guiltily claim credit for masterpieces that weren’t mine.  But I justified in my mind that it was only until I could improve my own work enough to present it.  I worked secretly at home to hone my skills so that someday my own work would be worthy of a trip outdoors.

I poured myself into my work  I was passionate about painting.  As a child I had been passionate too.  But nowadays, I wasn’t passionate for art’s sake but for the sake of creating safety to be able present my own work again.  If I got good enough, I could be worthy to receive the praise I had stolen.  Maybe then I could begin to paint again for the joy of it.

There I stood in the front window of my home.  I worked frantically on amidst piles of papers and oozing supplies.  It had become a familiar scene.  Caught in a trap of my own making, I was in a state of true panic.  Blood pounded in my ears.  The feeling was gone in my stained fingers.  The canvas I dabbed at was a soggy, blurry mess, through the tears that burned my eyes.  How long could I keep this up?  

In frustration I threw the easel to the floor.  Month after month, I had painted.  For what seemed an eternity I had been stuck in this trap, trying to get out.  I had been patient.  I had taken correspondence courses, studied the greats and sought private instruction.  Surely with time I could achieve.  Surely with practice, I could accomplish.  All to no avail.  My work continued to be second-rate, barely worthy of its place where it was stacked along the closet wall.  Things had gotten worse.  It seemed like the harder I tried, the less ability I had.  I began to wonder about myself, my calling.  As the months turned into years, I finally began to give into that sinking feeling I had tried to ignore for so long.  I’ll never be good enough.  I hated what I saw on the canvas.  I had unknowingly created a self-portrait of one who loathes everything she has become. Shock racked my chest like painful blows of an assailant as I caught sight of the grotesque image that had come from my hands.  Had I really gone this far?  

I walked to the closet.  Stack upon stack of images assailed me.  None were beautiful.  None had any merit.  How could I have ever thought that I could paint something worthy of display?  Darkness was where these works belonged.  Hidden.  With a torn spirt I threw in the easel, the paints.  Then, gritting my teeth, I threw in the hideous self portrait on top of it all.  And I slammed the door.

It was with some relief that I put away those things.  Yet as I passed the closet door day after day there was still a nagging at my soul.  Still a longing to create.  There was still that little six year old girl wishing to make a princess for the sheer joy of painting.  I was torn between bringing out my supplies and leaving the door shut forever.  But I knew what was best.  These images should never see the light.  They were a curse on humanity and the Creator.  Even in the darkened and confused state of my hurting heart I knew that these images were meant to be locked away. 

Then one day as I passed by the closet, they called to me again.  I had to paint.  If my paintings could never see the light, then neither would I.  And I climbed in the closet with them.

Sisters

“I like the way the trees cast shadows on the water,” I commented as our little kayaking party drifted past one of the best places on the South Llano River at just the right moment before sunset.  My sister, beside me said, “I like the way the light shines through the trees.”  I lifted my eyes.  It was nice.  And I probably wouldn’t have noticed that part of the scenery if she hadn’t pointed it out.  I guess I just assumed that we were seeing the same things as we rowed merrily along. 

Once again, an unexpected viewpoint, from someone I thought I knew so well, had enhanced my life.  One of us enjoys ripples in the water, the other delights in the beauty of a single flower that will last for only a day.  Another finds rest in the sight of a crane lifting gently from the water.  There we were.  Family.  We think we know each other.  But we are constantly surprised when life throws us a glimpse of what it’s like to see the same thing through each other’s eyes.  

It wasn’t the first time I had been pleasantly surprised in what I found in those brats I grew up with.  I guess it was traveling to Mexico with one sister that I noticed it first.  A quality that she had.  I don’t remember what it was now, but I remember thinking, “Hey thats neat.  I never knew that about her.”  And then I discovered a different and equally unique quality in another, and then the other.  And I began to realize that although we think we know each other, we are assuming a lot.  Though we think we are alike, we are so different.  And some of the traits I most desire in my own self, I find in my sisters.

One of us recently posed the question:  “If we weren’t sisters would we like each other?”  That’s a hard question to answer, and it’s one that you wouldn’t ask just anybody.  But since we’re family and we’ll always be that, it’s safe. Of course, it’s something we can speculate on, but probably won’t ever really know.  Would we be attracted to each other as friends?  I can only guess probably not.  I would most likely be intimidated by each one of my sisters, were she not my sister.  The fashionista...how could I relate to someone like her?  The independent...would I ever know she’s not so independent, would I see her unique ways as a treasure?  The capable, do-it-all loving mom...I’m pretty sure I would flail miserably in her light, so I’d probably stay away.  Yet God saw fit to place us in the same family.  We have the same histories, but different outcomes.  I appreciate and value their place and influence in my life.  I need them in order to be who I want to be. It’s almost like if you could take all our weaknesses and all our strengths and throw them in a pot, you’d come out with one complete person.  I wouldn’t be who I am if any one of them were missing.   

We kind of take it for granted that we will make up for each other where we lack.  And we take it for granted that the bond of sisterhood is enough to sustain us through tough times.  Being sisters provides an environment in which we can totally be ourselves, sharing our truest faults, without the risk of losing each other.  Of course, there is some inherent risk in any relationship, but with us, we know it would take a lot to break down those walls completely.

We have tested them little by little over time, and they remain.  We have no way of knowing if these relationships would make it outside of family.  But because there is that bond, our ties have been able to become stronger through each trial that comes along.  If we were gonna give up on each other, we’d have already done it.  Because, hopefully--let’s see what’s the best way to put this--the best is yet to come.  If it isn’t, boy are we in for it!

So would we still like each other if we weren’t sisters?  Chances are we’ll never know.  But it’s sure we would have missed out on a lot.  As it is I’m already pretty good at missing out on a lot of their contributions to my life just because I don’t take notice.  Until days like today.  Good thing God knew.  He planned it just right.  God must have put us together as sisters because He knew we wouldn’t find each other any other way.

Closet Artist (vol.2)

(continued from previous post...)

Being watched is not always a bad thing.  Especially when you’re sure of what you’re doing.  It had worked out well for me that day, to be sure.  It might have pumped my ego a little to know that those contestants closest to me, those who had the best view of my painting, had captured the second and third place ribbons.  Maybe my picture was worth copying after all.  Still it bothered me.  I didn’t like the feeling of being responsible for what other people did.  What would happen if I painted a bad picture?  What if my ideas were bad?  Or my technique was off?  What if I simply lacked inspiration?  Would others continue to follow?  

What would be the outcome for those blind copy cats if I was a bad example?  And what would it do for my self-esteem if I accidentally led them into painting horrid, ugly pictures and all the world knew where they got their inspiration?

To make matters worse, through the years I noticed myself being singled out as a creative type.  Please, Hope, help us make this.  Please, Hope, show us how to paint that.  It wasn’t long until I was coerced into full-fledged teaching.  Not only was I being copied....I was demonstrating publicly something that used to be very private and personal.  All the while the fears lurked?  What if I fail?

I discovered that a good fake can often to be the answer to the pressure to perform.  An artist can bring a painting to class and no one will know it is not an original.  As the students 'ooh and ahh' over it, the teacher can discuss technique and perspective without ever actually saying the painting is hers.  Yet all the while she knows they think it is hers.  And she knows that not only is the piece a fake, but that she is  a fake as well.  

Thirsty

There’s a part of me that wakes up unsatisfied each day.  It’s the same part that always wants more.  It’s the part that is lonely.  It’s the part that hurts.  It’s the part of me that feels like something is missing.

And so I go throughout my day throwing things at it.  I entertain myself, buy something, call friends who will pour encouraging words into me and shore me up.  I try to fill it with ambitious plans and busyness.  And when I can’t fill it, I want to crawl into the cave of my despair, where I will sleep, cry, or wonder when it will all end.

It’s a bottomless pit.  A vessel that cannot be filled.  It is the part of me that needs God.  And it is every part of me.  My whole body cries out with longing, with discontent.  I am a huge open space that screams, “Empty!  Empty!”  I cannot drink enough of Him to fill me up.

As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after You.  You, Oh Lord are my soul’s desire and I long to worship you.

Closet Artist (volume 1)

Colors can’t be seen where there is no light.  The shape of an image on canvas cannot be detected by touch.  An artist who paints and whose paintings remain in darkness is unsure of what she paints.  Her judgment is inhibited by the absence of exposure. She is aware that illumination is necessary in development and critique of her work as well as in the enjoyment and display of the finished piece.  As she dabs at the invisible screen in in the darkness, she struggles to appreciate the depth of beauty she hopes is there.  She paints because she must.  And she remembers.

That day was particularly sunny.  My eyes focused on the glaring sheath of butcher painter tacked on the wall in front of me.  My sheath.  I knew what would fill it.  As a six year old among 100 other excited, talkative young artists lined up along the fence, my mind was quietly fixed on what I had come to do.  It was a fence painting contest and what I was about to paint was going to take first place.

I had it all planned out.  The princess with her crown.  Her golden hair.  The flowers around her.  And the bright sun shining down on everything.  I couldn’t wait to get started.  A woman handed me a paintbrush and half an egg carton.  Each compartment held a different color.  I dipped my brush in and raised it confidently to make the first sure swipe at the paper, not noticing the hesitation in my fellow artists.

A girl next to me leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know what to paint.  What’s yours gonna be?”

“It’s gonna be a princess and some flowers and a sun,” I stated, not really looking at her.

“What color is her hair gonna be?” 

“Yellow,” I answered, dipping my brush in  the chosen color.

“That’s what I’m gonna do too!”  And with that she dipped her brush in yellow and watching my hand, began to sloppily duplicate my picture in a distorted, out of scale kind of way.  I was stunned.  Of all the kids here, why did she choose me to copy? Forcing my eyes to my own page, I focused on my work, ignoring the miniature version of my art that was assaulting the page next to me.  

My princess emerged smiling and all was well.  Soon, the sun was shining again and the flowers bloomed at her feet.  Satisfied with my efforts, I cleaned my brush and turned to survey the competition.  

As I looked up and down the fence, I was startled to see the wall awash with blonde princesses in a sea of sunbeams and flowers. Did no one have inspiration of their own?  How did my project become the work to copy?  I was certain it was not better than any of the others.  But it was one thing that they were not.  It was authentic.  An original. As I was called to the front to be recognized, my thoughts were bittersweet and wondering.  The announcer laughed as he commented on the similarity of so many of the entries.  I felt the others eyes on my back as I shook the man’s hand.  Why had I won and they had not?  I blushed and hung my head.  

There were two things I carried away with me that day:  a first place ribbon, and a keen sense of being watched.

to be continued...

Can We Keep Him?

The mammoth hole in the backyard is multi-purpose.  It was originally the site of an extensive dig in search of dinosaur bones.  These days, depending on what day it is, the crater can be anything from a swimming hole to a moat around twin volcanoes made of plastic water bottles heaped in mud.  Though currently inactive, these volcanoes will awaken on the fortunate day when the mother of the two boys supplies the vinegar and baking soda.  For now, the boys wait, fill the trenches with water, build and rebuild.    Playing in the mud is such fun; I can't see how some parents are against it.  Why, as a child I spent half my life with shovel in hand.  I guess this fascination with removal of earth is inherited.  Daddy was a digger too.  We sisters recall, with varied enthusiasm, his many projects.  We dug a cellar once.  Well twice.  For some reason, Daddy didn't like it the first time.  So he filled it in.  After it sat for a awhile, and the ground got good and hard, we redug it--in the exact original location!--by hand!--with shovels!  It started off as fun, but by the time the second cellar was nearing completion, we felt we were being subjected to the worst kind of forced child labor. I mean who wants to dig Daddy's hole in the backyard when you have your own 'tunnel to China' in the barn floor?  I had read Martyr of the Catacombs in school and was sure I could duplicate them.  There shouldn't be any problem--there was a map of the catacombs in the back of the book!  Once completed, they could serve as an underground highway, living quarters for the family in the event of a nuclear explosion or a Hiding Place for Jewish friends.    Yes, I read a lot.  And so do my boys.  Without the fetter of cable television, their minds still function and dream wild dreams as few children in this century can.  So to them, the 'hole' is important.  And big.  Both boys can get in it up to their armpits.  This large cavity in the ground is their entertainment of choice, providing me with time alone inside the house to mop muddy floors (again).    This hole is a hole of dreams.  It is an "if you dig it they will come" kind of thing.  And boy did those boys plan for 'them' to come!  Who exactly would come and fall prey to the hole was just a detail.  Why, it could be anybody!  The hole could be a squirrel trap!  That would be just fine.  But even better, what if a tiger fell in like in Swiss Family Robinson?  Of course, the very best thing that could happen would be for a prowler to bow the knee (or break the leg).  And so you can bet that last night when we returned home late and saw flashing red and blue lights in our alley, the boys were excited.  The police had the four blocks around our house sealed off.  There were about eight of them around the perimeter, two of those parked directly behind our house shining lights in our back yard.  We sensible parents have 'absolutely no sense of imagination' (Anne of Green Gables) and so we hadn't given thought to the backyard orifice.  That is, until it did its magic.  Don't even try to tell those boys that no one would ever come into the yard and fall into that hole!  O ye of little faith!  One Midland officer can testify that it is indeed a very good trap after all.    So they didn't catch their burglar… but isn't a cop in a hole just as exciting?  Fortunately, the officer was unhurt (and was released).  The hole remains.  Today it basks in the glory of its success…tomorrow it becomes an active volcano at last.  Long live the hole!  And long live the minds that can imagine that even the unimagineable can happen!    A true story.

I knew you.  Knew who you were. We talked on occasion. At times I liked to pretend that there was something more to our relationship. But you and I both knew we were acquaintances at best. 

Then one day you showed up at my door with a gleam in your eye and the keys to the world in your hand, and life has never been the same. I didn’t know where you would take me or what we would do. I only knew I wanted to be there with you, in the crook of your arm, looking up into your face. Your eyes. 

How could I have known you felt this way about me? And how could I have not known? How was I to know you had been waiting, watching for a moment to tell me, to let me into your world? And how was I not aware of it?

Song of Solomon 2:10,  Revelation 3:20, I John 3:16

Making a Difference

I just came in from outside where I was digging the foundation for a new sidewalk I want.  It’s true that most women are indoors cooking dinner, but I prefer to be doing the groundbreaking work of improvement. I predictably choose the task that is more exciting over the everyday tasks.  I want to do whatever is going to get me the most bang for my labor.

I love to paint.  Nothing makes as big a difference in a room as a coat of paint, and I think that is why I love it.  Dusting, though easier than painting, is not my idea of a good way to spend my time.  If I dust or if I don’t, who will notice?  But painting!  Even MY husband notices when the yellow living room goes red.  And that’s what I’m after...a noticeable difference.

As I was working outside on the sidewalk, and thinking about these tendencies in my life, I began to look a little deeper.  On the surface, this looks like a problem.  Hope wants to do the glory jobs, but leaves the mundane ones undone.  She only wants to do the work that will produce a big change or improvement.  Sure, I need to work on that.  Mundane jobs need to be done as well as the exciting ones.  And I need to be willing to work on tasks where there will be no noticeable difference whatsoever.  But in all of my self-loathing for neglect of simple duties, I don’t want to miss the beauty of how God made me who I am.  I need to find a balance.  God made me a person who loves to see improvement.  What did He do that for?   Is there any way He would like to use it for good?

So I start thinking. Difference...difference.  What does the Bible say about making a difference?  And then it came to me... “and of some having compassion, making a difference.”  

Whew...hard one.  I should try that.  But painting is easier.

God help me to see where I can be more compassionate and help me to do it.  help me remember that you were compassionate to me first.