Creative Process....
How I Found My Way Into the Art Labyrinth
When I hit my mid fifties, time seemed to be getting shorter and I had a lot of things I wanted to do, explore, experience. I decided to get into this “art thing” to see if I liked it. I went at it in my usual methodical way. I decided to take on a “project” and not worry about how it came out. This required some “disciplined” letting go, since it was antithetical to every way I’d ever approached anything.
Making a book of self-portraits
For about a week I drew or painted pictures of myself. To my surprise I found the process of drawing myself quite an interesting meditation. I actually lost track of time and forgot to care whether I was getting a “likeness” or not. In fact I came to enjoy the odd pictures that resulted; they seemed to reveal different sides of myself. I decided I wasn’t as ugly or as beautiful as I thought; I thought about my father a lot since I have his nose. I wondered where I got my close set eyes and decided my chin looked distressingly like it was going to sag in another 10 years (which it did). A selection of these portraits is here.
I liked pen and ink, pastels, and acrylics the most. Watercolor seemed too delicate and didn’t create texture; I was surprised to notice how much I liked to push thick paint around. Pen and ink was so unforgiving I just had to let go and hope for the best (which was kind of exciting) and pastels could be rubbed with your fingers and that appealed to my need for tactile involvement with my art. I loved the thick watercolor paper. It didn’t buckle (get all wavy when wet) and it made me feel as if I was making something substantial. In a way, choosing to work on such good (expensive) paper was an indication of my commitment to seriously trying out art.
In fact I liked the paper so much I decided to teach myself bookbinding so I could bind all these pictures into one place. Once I’d gotten the portraits all cut and stacked I decided my book needed words. I couldn’t go naked into this process. I had to clothe myself in some words. I didn’t want to take time to write anything myself, so I decided to use quotes:
Creative minds always have been known to survive any kind of bad training
-Anna Freud, 1968
This suited my mood at the time - I was the “victim” of bad training and I was going to set things straight.
-Gloria Anzaldua, 1987
Look into the mirror. The face that pins you with its double gaze reveals a chastening secret. You are looking into a predator’s eyes
- Diane Ackerman, 1990
I knew I was done with this project and had invited art into my life like a lover when I had a very long, complex dream in April, 1998 which I’ve abridged here:
“I hug him (the young man) around the waist from behind...a bunch of information hits me - I’ve known him since he was a little boy. I’m 54 and he is in his 20s. I’ve always loved him, particularly for his incredible intelligence and sweet loving nature.
We’re in his small convertible sports car and turn down a narrow one-lane European style street. I’m almost giddy and breathless from the speed, the love, the newness of it all. I take in the moment with my senses, smelling the air, feeling it on my skin, the warmth of my breast under his wind chilled hand; I can even feel the blood in my body circulating through the veins and arteries and filling the cells. It’s like a car in tune; I feel like a well-tuned car.
We drive into a cave so big I can’t see the ceiling. It’s actually a car repair shop! I take in the lovely sweep of the curving back wall, the beautiful terra cotta color and I wonder who had the idea to blend this practical building with this gorgeous natural formation.
We go into an art gallery, all grey and dingy with grey people in it. There’s a critic there and she’s going to make a disparaging remark about the difference in our ages - I see I don’t care. I’m so committed to this course nothing will stop me except my lover saying he does not love me.”
I had drawn and painted my way into loving art, no matter how late in life it was, no matter what critics might think; making art led me to a feeling of giddy happiness and to feeling deeply, down to my cells. Like a car in tune, I was me as I was meant to be when making art. There was no going back, but the seas I rode on were rough and unruly.
