Mrs.
Dixon was the name of my ninth grade art teacher. I don't have a ton of
great high school memories, so that means something to me. In those days, I was
far more preoccupied with the social (or more fittingly, antisocial) aspects
of high school than I was academics, so I remember being surprised at liking
art class. Mrs. Dixon was engaging and interesting, and she led us to explore
color and shapes through drawing and painting, with frequent reminders that we
all see and create differently. It was as close as I got back then to “critical
thinking.” I remember that though I wasn't the best at drawing, she still
encouraged me to pursue other avenues of creative expression, thus suggesting
that I had some creative talents. I remember working on one large sketch for
several weeks with colored pencils, and we did another with charcoal. I
remember fondly that acrylic painting we did with geometric shapes lined in
repetition--a few shapes bursting out of order in disarray (all too analogous
to how I felt among my peers). I can still see the pastel still life I
completed of a rope, net and life preserver. Looking back, it was the only
class I really enjoyed… and in truth, one of the few I regularly attended.
Like
so many people, my dreams of becoming an artist have been – well, dreams. Quiet
dreams. And while the idea of being a renowned painter may be slightly
more attainable than my other great fantasy of being the next Bob Dylan (that’s
just not going to happen), somewhere in my gut of guts, I
think there’s a piece of me that always wondered if I could “do art.” For many
years now, I’ve been viewed as an intellectual, a writer, an activist. I’ve
been a teacher and counselor. A free spirit yogi. The one who married an
artist. But I certainly haven’t been seen as someone bursting with artistry or
someone with creative potential in that way.
When
we don’t practice remembering, we forget. When we label the pursuit of our
dreams as menial or unattainable, our dreams become our regrets. At the
beginning of this summer I set an intention to be more creative and to believe
in my potential to create. And guess what? I have. Until these last few months,
I had gone years without remembering Mrs. Dixon’s class. I forgot that I began
college as a Fine Arts major who ended up with a minor in Photography. I forgot
that somewhere in my house there has always been a set of
crayons, pastels and paints. I forgot that I often make holiday and birthday
cards instead of buying them and that I’ve collaged and given handmade jewelry
as gifts. I forgot that I have a knack for creating an energy and tone for my
home through decorating, color and shape combinations (even though I moved
pretty regularly for many years).
I
forgot that I’m talented. (And as an aside—I really wanted to be wishy-washy in
that last statement. I wanted to say “I forgot that I might be
talented.” Or “I forgot that I may have talent waiting to be unmasked.” It’s so
hard to be direct. Making clear, active statements about my talents—not potential talents,
but talents—is hard. But intentions require specificity and
self-love. I’m learning to embrace this.)
This
past weekend, I took a painting class and though it wasn't my first, it felt as
if it was. It was my first class with oils—Introduction to Oil
Painting—and in pure Bob Ross style I created a mountain landscape with a
sun-streaked cloudy sky, large boulders, a bald mountain top, and trees, bushes
and rhododendrons. Unlike high school, I didn’t care if the
class was cool, and unlike the me before, I didn’t care if the end result was
any good. My painting was by no means a masterpiece…. But it was a master step.
This
creative longing inside is building in a way that makes my bones ache, and I’m
starting to recognize that it’s an aged longing. I’m being pulled toward this
guiding sense of freedom that started many years ago—and along that path I see my
way lined with paint tubes, bristles, color and exploration (as well as
hundreds of other things!). I don’t know where this all will lead—but
that’s OK, because I’m not in it for answers. I’m just going. Feeling.
Following the pull. And If I’m being honest—I’m also really, really
excited.
Over
the last year, I’ve made life changes and sacrifices that have created more
time and space for “me.” Sometimes the space isn’t pretty—actually, it’s quite
often not pretty—but I am starting to understand why it’s important. I’m
starting to witness to the regularity of which I’ve begun conversations with my
body, intuition, spirit and gut. And for the first time in a long time, I hear
this collective speaking loudly—I’m starting to let it call the shots. I’ve
given my mind the back seat and am letting body/intuition/spirit/gut take the
reins. And it’s working—I know this for sure—because left to her own free will,
Brain would have never signed up for that class last Saturday (“We can’t afford
it!” “We have too much to do!” “It’s not necessary!” “Blah, blah, blah…”).
So.
That’s was my painting class, complete with lessons on focal points, the color
wheel, mixing colors, remembering days past and gazing towards my blooming
inner wisdom. The combination of these has had a pretty tremendous effect of
restoring old memories while providing guidance on how to create new ones. And
speaking of creating new memories, my wife—the artist!—was so
endeared with joy at my smiling face and completed Bob Ross that I was taken
shopping very the next day for my own set of paints and brushes. After our
paint supply trip we promptly returned home to rearrange the dining room to
make space for our old easel so I have a place to create. So here's to keepin'
this artsy vibe goin! Happy little clouds! (The Bob Ross Remix above pretty much
sums up my sentiments. Check it out.)
Thanks,
Bob. Thank you, Mrs. Dixon. Thank you, Al... And thank you, inner collective
wisdom.
