Queen Call-Out

Queen Call-Out Confession #1: I love that painting is messy. Even better is cleaning up and later finding some green around my cuticle or blue spots on my thumb that never washed away. This weekend, I found a streak of black near my inner bicep, and though I’m not quite sure how it got up there, it made me smile.

I’m shy about offering these confessions as they have the potential to significantly decrease my cool factor. But. I love my paint stained hands. And the next time I see you, when you wonder whether the purple stains on my pinky were left there on purpose, I'll be honest: It's not outside the realm of possibility.

I feel like we’re not supposed to admit this kind of stuff, but why pretend otherwise? Having paint on my hands “after the fact” makes me feel.... Awesome. Happy. Cool. Are these not good things to feel? It’s like getting scraped up on your bike as a kid and showing off your justly earned Batman band-aid. Or getting to stay in your leotard and tutu after dance class during errands with mom.  These were childhood badges of honor that said to the world: I Do Dangerous and Highly Important Awesome Grown-Up Things (I Ride Bikes! I Dance!). Today, knuckle creases of green and gold demonstrate to me and the world that I too do totally awesome things: I Paint. I Am a Painter.

I entered my office at the beginning of the week with a pretty severe case of the Mondays, and started my morning begrudgingly: turning on my computer, checking email, getting coffee, yada, yada, yada. And then. I noticed a smudge of black paint around my thumbnail.  This small, unexpected token of my weekend reminded me that I am far more than a woman at a desk. I took a breath of relief. I do totally awesome things.

That little spark of gratitude started a fire, and got me to thinking about how I’ve never before wanted to admit how much I love those badge of honor dabs. Like working hard in the house or yard in my torn up work jeans and beat up boots—and then leaving them on when I go to lunch. I Do Physical Labor. Once, I changed the spark plugs in my car when it died in a flood. When my car started again, I felt as if I’d parted the Red Sea. That day, I left the grease on my hands for as long as I could get away with in hopes someone would ask what I’d been doing. When they asked, I offered my response with the ultimate in coolness: total indifference. “What’s that from? Oh, ya know, just workin’ on my car. No big deal.” (Parting the Red Sea? Whatevs.)

Why do we do this, I wonder? And why is coolness seemingly equated with not giving a shit? Because I do care. I care a lot. I care that I paint, that I can fix stuff,  that I’ve done work on my house. I’m proud that I can do these things, and they make me happy. In fact I care so much….

Drum roll please.…

Queen Call-Out Confession #2:  I’ve wanted to incorporate some abstract figures into my paintings, but I’m completely intimidated because I’ve never considered myself good at drawing. So, last night, as I was doodling in my journal, I thought, “maybe I’ll practice drawing some figures.” And then I froze. I knew better. I was not going to create anything of which I’d be proud. All that would result is a messed up journal page I’d wish I could tear out—but can’t, because there’s something important written on the back.

And then suddenly I was like, “what’s that about? Who cares? It’s my journal! Isn’t this what journals are for?!”  

So I paused for a moment and watched my thoughts to see if I could get honest about my hesitations. Here’s what I found:

The blank page represented infinite possibilities. But leaving ugly, awkward figures on my page, would demonstrate to me that I am not good at drawing. And thus, all of the world’s possibilities would subsequently come to an end. Done. Finito.  

But that was not all. I also thought, “what if draw these awful figures and someone sees it? They’ll think I’m a joke. I suck at drawing.”  

“But no one sees my journal.“

“But what if they did?”

“No one does. Only I see it.”

“But what about when I’m dead? What if someone looks in my journals when I’m dead? They’ll know I was never any good and….”

What?

Yes. This is what I, Queen Call-Out, actually thought about.

Needless to say, I went on to draw some figures. Hideous figures. Awkward, ugly, amateur figures.  Getting my brain's visions onto paper is not my strong suit. But in practicing for a half hour, I realized that practice may help me get better. Duh. There was something liberating in finally practicing something that had once filled me with self-inflicted embarrassment and shame.  

My lack of drawing ability is one of the reasons I enjoy painting. I think in abstracts. I like colors, textures, flow. Drawing—for me—is stiff, rigid. Brushes, tubes and gels are not. Instead of tending to details, I can tend to feeling. I like watching brushes make colors on canvas, and I like mixing up paints on my palette. In paints, I find a freedom and a confidence to let go.

And that’s what that little speck of black on my thumbnail did for me this past Monday: reminded me of my freedom. My ability to let go and just be. I can create and be imaginative. I can choose my circumstances and perspectives. The paint on my hands reminded me that I am capable. I Am a Creator. “I contain multitudes.” (Shout out to Walt!) I Paint. I Am a Painter.

I wonder how often we play nonchalant instead of giving ourselves the joy and credit we deserve? I wonder how often we stop ourselves from things we have potential to do and love because of self-inflicted inner embarrassments and shame?

Queen Call-Out says, “Show all your colors to the world. Go out there with free abandon and be who you are. Take chances. Hold nothing back. You are capable. Now be bold so you can go be great.” And of course, “Stay cool, girl. Stay cool.”