Autobiographical Narrative: I am an Artist “I am an artist.” It’s taken me a long time to say those words. I’ve always known art to be a large part of me, but to say “I am an artist” means that I believe my work is successful, meaningful, and liked by many. Is that really what the phrase means; to be an artist, I must create works that are good enough to sell? I had always thought so, until recently. As I sit here pondering the word “art”, I realize that ever since I can remember I had implemented some type of art into everything I did, whether it be creating something colorful in school, helping in the garden, decorating my room, cooking, or even doodling while talking on the phone. Everything I did was artistic. What does that mean? Well, for the years I spent being a full time mom to five wonderful kids, it meant a fancy birthday cake, a successful garden, or a crazy fun costume for a school play. However, when it came time to finding out who I was after that, I learned more about myself than I had in the 38 years preceding. My children are now very independent. My oldest is married and in the military far from me. My second oldest is 18 years old. She still lives at home, but is actively searching for her place in the world. My middle child is 13 and has just finished his first manuscript. My youngest daughter is 10. She is and always has been very independent. She prefers to do everything on her own. My baby, who is “no longer a baby” he blatantly reminds me, is growing far too fast. Now at age seven and in school full time, he pretty much does his own thing. I hear from him when he is hungry or hurting. Why do I tell you all this? These children don’t seem to need me much anymore. I’ve gone from diaper changes and nursing to “I’m going to Zach’s” or “I’ll call you tomorrow when I have more time.” Now what? What do I do with my time now that it’s mine? I’ve tried over the years to find things to do to take my mind off maternal stress. Scrapbooking, jewelry making, and bake sales were okay for a little while, but they quickly became boring and unfulfilling. The discovery began. Christmas was quickly approaching. It was time to get out decorations, put up a tree, and hang stockings. I had collected Nativity sets for many years. It’s always been important for me to help my kids remember the true meaning of Christmas. Most Nativities, being some type of ceramic, meant that they were hand painted. As I unpacked the many boxes, I sat on the carpet inspecting each small figurine and critiquing the way they were painted. I must have said my thoughts aloud because my daughter said, “Well, you could repaint them, so you will enjoy them more.” She knew what a perfectionist I had always been and how important my Nativities were to me. If I wanted to be happier with them, I had no choice but to paint them myself. However, since these sets were all varnished, their work was complete. I needed to find unfinished ones to paint. After some Internet research, I found a ceramic shop in a town nearby. I think my husband saw a bit of flame in my soul by way of a small sparkle in my eye because before I had finished asking the question, he answered, “Sure, let’s all go. The kids would enjoy that too.” The place was called Patty’s Ceramics. We parked the car and all piled out. I’m sure we caused a bit of panic when we so loudly bolted into the small crowded shop full of fragile items. The air inside was stuffy and moist. It smelled of wet clay and paints. On the right, there were tables lined end to end full of ceramic pieces in all stages of completion. Some were waiting to be scraped and cleaned. Some were being painted by ladies who had a look of peacefulness about them as they worked. My son must have noticed that same serenity as he whispered, “They look like Santa’s Elves.” I held back tears partially because that was the cutest, most descriptive analogy I have heard from a five year old, but also because I so longed for that same fulfilled feeling. The room to the far right contained kilns, molds, clay, and varieties of green ware. Straight ahead was a small room filled with a slew of tools; drawer after drawer filled with every type of shaper, smoother, knife, and sponge one could imagine. As I looked to the left, those tears I had fought a moment ago began to overfill my eyes and make their way down my cheeks. My husband, who had been preoccupied with keeping the kids from knocking over the scattered breakables on the floor, turned and saw me. He worked his way back to me and without words, he wrapped his arms around me tightly. I buried my face into his chest. I sobbed for a moment then muttered, “I found it. This is what I needed.“ I gathered my composure and stepped back from him. I knew that if we made eye contact, I would cry again. Instead, I quickly turned my head toward the left part of the shop; facing back were aisles of unpainted ceramics. There were thousands to choose from. They were categorized into themes, each piece speaking to me differently. Time had quickly passed. I was so proud of my children. I had been so wrapped up in my emotional state that I had lost sight of their activities. I half expected to be in debt to Patty for the many broken sculptures at the hands of my sometimes clumsy kids. Instead, I looked around to find each child with arms full of unpainted treasures and a proud smile on Dad’s relieved face. I had been so distraught all these years by the void inside me for having buried my love for art that I hadn’t realized my children also had acquired that love. Each child looked so excited to paint the carefully selected ceramics; how could we say no? I found the shelf of Nativity sets. Each had its own style, price, size, and voice. It was a very difficult decision to make, but I finally chose the set that spoke to me the strongest. We made our way to the counter and nearly choked at the total cost. My poor husband took out his debit card and without complaint, handed it to Patty. I think he realized this was year’s worth of therapy sitting on the counter, and he happily accepted the cost. That afternoon, we set up our dining table for painting. We had newspapers, cups, paintbrushes, and paper plates for pallets. Three years prior, a neighbor had retired her bottles of acrylic paints. Although many were dried up and most needed reconstituting, I had requested to take them. I had hoped that one day they would be useful. I was right. Each child, armed with a ceramic tree ornament, paintbrush, and over 400 acrylic paints, began to work. The hours melted. I had never before felt so at peace. My entire 14-piece Nativity was completely painted by the end of the weekend. Monday came and I found myself back at the ceramic shop looking for more therapy. The monster inside me had been unleashed, and there was no stopping it. Following the fourth large debit charge from our account to Patty’s, my husband gently spoke up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop this monster, but he was hoping to tame it a bit. He said, “Why don’t we see what you can do on canvas. “ He knew each painting on canvas would take me longer to complete than the ceramic sculptures and canvas was less expensive. Both would assist in lowering cost, but not extinguish the fire within me. Since I had an abundance of bottled acrylic paint, I chose to see what results I could get with them on canvas as suggested. I learned liquid acrylics soak rapidly into fabric and dried too quickly. I could create nice paintings, but the bottled acrylic simply had too many limitations. I then went to the craft store to buy acrylic in tubes. They are still water based, but the paint is thicker, and they mix together better. These results pleased me. I used the Internet to learn all that I could about painting clouds, water, and trees. One of the videos I watched was done with oil paint. The method used in the video captivated me. I had created over 50 works of art using acrylic; it was time to move on. I found myself back at the craft store. Mustering up every coupon I could, I bought the many supplies required for oil painting. My willingness to learn had overpowered me. I sat staring at a blank canvas. I envisioned what I wanted to paint: a simple sky with some clouds. I set my table up beside me, placing a pallet and display of brushes methodically in place. I grabbed my first tube of oil paint. I can’t tell you what prompted my next move. Call it destiny if you believe in such a thing. I brought the tube of Cobalt Blue paint toward my nose to smell it. Something hit me like a hammer blow to the head. I’m not sure to this day whether my reaction was due to a latent unaccountable memory or God’s way of waking me up to my new world. My eyes were now opened, as large as they could possibly be. What was that smell? Had I smelled it before? Why am I reacting this way? As tears ran down my face I realized, this is what I’ve been searching for my whole life, this moment. All the very important recent events led up to this. Without them, I would never have known I had chosen the right path. The smell of that tube sent my mind on a whirlwind adventure. The “buts,” “ifs,” and “whys” flooded my thoughts. Why now? If this is what I’m supposed to be doing with my life, why has it waited so long to present to me? But can I afford this new adventure? What do I do with this? The questions dizzied me. The feelings were almost too strong to bear. I attempted my first painting, but my mind wandered beyond the canvas in front of me. At that moment, I was forced to put everything away to process these new findings. I didn’t completely abandon this discovery, of course. Over time I created over a dozen very successful paintings with the oil. The time was spent mostly experimenting and learning by mistake. Still, in the back of my mind, I was wondering where to go next. I knew this was it, but how? I need to learn, but where? During the experimenting phase, I talked often with my husband about how I was feeling. It was decided. Our youngest would be starting first grade in the fall. He would be gone with the other children from early morning to mid afternoon every day. This meant, I too, could be gone. “I’m going to college!” I cried. The decision of when was made. Soon the decision of where was made as well. My first semester at Utah Valley University was complete. It was fairly uneventful. Since it was mostly foundation work, nothing sparked as I had hoped. Although the semester bored me a bit, I so longed for my much needed painting classes, so I tried to remain excited. Spring semester was soon under way. A required class was 3D Design. We were introduced to the assignments we were to complete for the class credit, none of which seemed interesting to me. Wire sculpture is definitely not my thing. I muddled through it, but didn’t much care for it. Following wire was stone sculpture, another I was not familiar with. We chose our stones and were given instruction. I curiously jumped in and began working on my sculpture. It wasn’t too bad; I found it almost enjoyable. The destructive manner used to sculpt stone was therapeutic. The constant pounding from the other students seemed to disappear as I engulfed myself into my new discovery. The instructor made his way around the classroom helping those who needed it. I was so consumed by my chiseling that I hadn’t realized he had taken a seat beside me. He apparently had been sitting there for a good number of minutes. Once I acknowledged his presence, he asked me to step out of the classroom. Confused, I did what I was asked. I was then led into the classroom across the hall. There was another class in progress, but he went unnoticed to the cabinets full of large alabaster stones. He rummaged through them a bit. Distracted by the noise, the other instructor paused his lecture to say simply, “It’s in the cabinet under the sink.” How did he know what my instructor was looking for? With his found treasure in hand, my instructor led me back into the hall. He handed me the large stone. He began, “We found this very unique stone when we unloaded the delivery this summer. We chose to hide it away for just the right student. I think we have found that student. Take this home and spend time with it. Do something great with it, and we will put your work in the student show. I think you have what it takes to get your piece chosen.” With a wink and a smile, he walked away. I was dumbfounded, to say the least. What had I done with those first few hours that gave him such hope? The constant hum of the fluorescent lights above me was almost mesmerizing. Every couple of minutes another student would shuffle past. I’m not sure how long I stood there examining the stone and events that had unfolded. I so very much enjoyed painting, but could there be more to my destiny than I had thought? Could other types of art bring as much joy to me as painting had? I spent the weekend in confusion and almost in fear of this new stone. Why was it so special? Why was I so special? I have to admit, this stone certainly felt differently in my hands than the other one had. It was a large, roughed edged, dark stone. It wasn’t much to my untrained eye. However, it seemed to have life inside of it. It almost vibrated with energy in my hands. It gave me that same feeling as holding a brown grab bag of surprises from the dime store as a child. What’s hiding inside? I can’t wait to open it. The more time I spent examining it, the more attached I became. Once I felt an eerie closeness to it, I began to carve. This time was different. The first stone I worked on followed my expectations the same way my paintings had. I had chosen the content and final result. This stone was different. It seemed as though it told me what to do with it. It spoke to me. It whispered secrets; secrets, which for some reason were held from everyone but me. Without realizing it, I had worked on this intimate conversation for over seven hours without food or drink. Voids on all sides now showed on the surface of this rough stone. It was beginning to say its story. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. Nearly without choice, I abandoned my work and went to bed. It was a very restless night. I spent the entire night carving and shaping that stone in my mind. It seemed to speak secrets to me even while I slept. Although the morning found me with puffy eyes and a tired mind, I had a peaceful soul. Following my morning rituals for the children, I sent them off to school. With a much needed coffee in hand, I sat down in front of my stone to examine the work I had completed the previous day. I was surrounded by powdered white gold that glistened in the morning light. Shimmery flakes and chunks of alabaster were scattered everywhere. Stone covered tools lay beckoning to be put to use. The pleading whispers began and all else disappeared. I carefully used chisels to remove insignificant areas and unmask what hid within. The stone entrusted me to all the concealed mysteries it had held captive for so many years. I buried myself while again shutting out everyone and everything else. The energy that I lacked from my long night was given back to me with every blow of my hammer. It seemed as though I found strength with every shiny chunk that fell to the floor. My stone was all that mattered. The last 20 of the total 70 hours of work were spent with different sanding materials until the surface reflected light from all around it. My hands vibrated on their own when my work was complete. I had no idea that I had passion like that dwelling inside me. I had thought that painting would be what would bring the completeness I so longed for. The knowledge that I could gain such serenity with stone carving was beyond comprehension. How do I choose between these two discoveries? Can I hold on to both needs? In awe, I stood back looking at my sculpture. With tears uncontrollably escaping my eyes, I found it difficult to focus. Had I just created such elegance? The lines were so fluid, the shape so perfect, the message so alive; “Motherhood” it whispered softly. The secret hiding inside the rough disproportionate shell was now revealed. Of course, the viewer saw the outside form of the stone and admired it for its new unveiled beauty. I, however, knew it inside and out. I knew its inner harmony, its desires, and its voice. Just as this stone revealed itself to me and allowed me to see what it had hidden for so many years, I too, felt sculpted. All those years that I had suppressed my love for art, I had no idea it still longed to be rediscovered. I could no longer deny it as part of my soul. Painting helped me remember and fuel that passion for art, that need to feel alive again, and that validation. It would always be my first love. Stone sculpting helped me discover a new me, a new life, and a new voice--my artistic voice--a voice which will never again go unheard. I am an artist.
Posted on: Thu, 19 Sep 2013 19:41:58 +0000
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