Starving Artist Ink.

i plopped her in the swing for the first time. the sun shining so brightly in her eyes. i expected.. nothing. feeling somewhat like an idiot for going to the park where there were parents with kids that PLAY. kids that run and scream and want to slide down the slide. and there i am.. this little body strapped to my chest. uncurling her from the carrier and sticking her in a swing. i didn’t expect anything out of it. thinking she might just sit there for a bit and then i’d pick her up again and she’d sit on my hip.
but then i pushed her and she laughed wildly
over and over again
a little girl running over and joining the swing next to her- laughing with her
the wind blowing through her hair
she laughed
and watched the other kids running around
and she loved it…
and i loved it.
sat plopped down on the ground below her, pushing her back and forth
it wasn’t long ago that i walked past that park, listening to the kids playing
pregnant mamas holding onto their toddlers hands
and i was feeling that pang. longing. feeling so very alone.

she is here… and she is wild with laughter and life
and so am i.

everyday we look at her in amazement…
we made you…
out of nothing, you came.
how were you not here before?
you were always here.

we lay in bed with her between us… just looking at her
we’re so very lucky.
you make our lives so very rich.

flat stanley flew in from pennsylvania a week ago… we had beautiful weather, so i was able to bring stanley around town and take pictures of him to share with his friends back in the classroom.

i think it’s so absolutely sweet, and i remember so clearly being in elementary school – getting to choose a ‘pen pal’ of sorts to do a project with. hoping that i could find somewhere cool to send and receive from. and now… i’m on the other side, putting together a little package that i hope will thrill.

inside the package back, i included a letter written in irish, and, of course, translated to english. a map of ireland, a calendar with events happening in ireland, a few postcards, the ‘polaroids’ printed with a bit of information about the place on the backside, and a shamrock picked that had a hole eaten into it in the shape of a heart.

has flat stanley ever visited you? what did you send back in return or, what would you send?

i’ve been asked a few times to share how i got started with painting… it was never a concious decision.. it always simply was.

i feel incredibly lucky that i come from a creative household. not that anyone lived as an artist in my family, but it was always there.. always present. my mom’s crafty hand creating what called to her- different mediums of fabrics, wood, wool what have you. her fingers strumming the guitar…  my papa a mad scientist- carving, mechanics, drawing, sculpting.
at one point, while both worked full time jobs- they’d travel on the weekends and set up a little booth to sell the craft they built together, then opened a little tiny shop in town to sell their goods. so very sweet. they believed in and followed little passions as they arose. supporting new ideas simply because they wanted to experience it. they believe in and support each others wild ideas.

my brothers are both artists though they don’t admit that- and they don’t practice either. i guess *life* gets in the way and they have found other things to put their passions into besides pencil to paper.. all the same, they have it.  they both have a voice for music as well, and one can strum a tune across the strings of his guitar.

the first artist i ever admired, well.. besides bob ross… was my elementary school art teacher. wild grey hair, mad loud mouth, paint tattered clothes. she did not allow erasers into her classroom.

i believe that all children are creative beings, and that we simply have to create a space for them to explore… you don’t have to have the *right* materials… you just have to allow mess to happen, knowing that it can be cleaned up later on. fostering creativity where it comes- with words, with play, with food, with whatever your child is into… there is a creative in there.

i forever was doodling, drawing, painting. in my bedroom, painting portraits of my dog in tempera paint on computer paper. playing dress up and becoming laura from the prairie. making offerings to the indian grave at my grandmothers cabin. dancing wildly in the red clay of oklahoma, painting our bodies, and beckoning the rain.

i tagged alongside my mama when she went to art classes at the local college… went with her to craft lock-ins where circles of women would create and laugh together all hours of the night. i was included in her tribe, and i was *seen*

i knew, regardless if i had talent or not- that it just felt right and good and was something i wanted to be apart of. i’d sign up to receive pamphlets from RISD (that i dreamt of going to) and other art schools.. falling deeply, madly in love with these kids i saw on their campus.. their work. their talent.. oh. i want to be them.

…and then i fell in love with a man far far away. the deeper pull in my heart of knowing that this was the path i should take. that love is both beautiful and rare..and that art is always there.. that art does not need to be taught….(from my art journal in middle school)

i often feel like i’m not a kosher artist. like perhaps i don’t belong. like i can’t compare to other *real* artists because i don’t know the art world like they do. often i feel like i’m not legit (and i’m not sure why). sometimes i feel like i’m a fraud… and i don’t see why someone would be willing to pay me to paint something for them. surely they can do it themselves.
should i be telling you that?
probably not.. i mean, if i were a business woman – it’d probably be wise to not voice my insecurities in my art.
but they’re there. and i’m real.. and this is how it is.
i think that most creatives deal with the same thing. feeling inadequate amongst their peers. comparing themselves with others that they admire… trying to better themselves always, and then every now and then feeling that insecurity on their path.

there’s voicing those insecurities and telling the world (when perhaps you aren’t supposed to)
and there’s not even trying.
i could easily paint all day long and feel connection to what i do,  feel insecurity in my ability– and not share my work with anyone else.. feeling too vulnerable and scared to put myself out for success or failure.
or. i could take the chance and just share it…

one of the greatest gifts i have been given by sharing my art – are the connections i have made. the friendships that have formed with artists that i have admired from afar.. the connections with people who have purchased my work and shared their story about what it means to them. knowing that something i have created hangs in their house, imprinting memories of *home*.
i have been lucky to have some of the best clients.. that come back to me over and over. people who *get* where i am coming from.. who are patient and understanding of my muse…
MY art graces THEIR walls… how lucky am i.