Well, writing. Or really any creative practice that is considered “art.” Years ago, my husband was doing Julia Cameron’s Artists Way. He is a painter. At the time, I was journaling quite a bit, so I dabbled in the exercises too. In one, you are supposed to pursue a creative practice that is different from your chosen medium, which I guess for me was words. I picked up some drawing pencils and some lovely paper. They felt so good in the hand, but I was paralyzed when it came to actually making a stroke on the page. Like I am embarrassed for myself, even if no one else is seeing what I am doing.
Which is completely ridiculous because I understand that everything is a practice. I love art and design- beauty is one of my core values. I appreciate beautiful writing- I’m reading Olga Tokarczuk right now and just wow. I marry artists. My former husband is a painter. My current is a photographer. (Maybe that’s part of the problem) I love museums, art, culture, music. Much of my second career has been spent working in the arts. I’ve run a symphony orchestra, I programmed a summer music festival, I am a champion of public art. I’m an arts enabler.
When I was young, I was told I was the smart one and my sister was the creative one. So I sailed in that direction. I remember an art class in probably 5th or 6th grade- it was taught by a wonderful older man who would project the masters from a slide carousel and make funny word associations so we could remember them. I was captivated- I memorized them all. When we went to the Met, I stood in front of Guernica and cried. And when we did our own painting in class, I worked endlessly on trying to copy a Turner sky, but felt dejected when a classmate claimed it as her own. I remember that as a moment of giving up.
Where I have not given up is the garden. Rosa mutabalis, calamagrostis, artemisia, lavender, stachys byzantina. Some of the plants were damaged by the recent heavy snow, but they will bounce back. The daffodils have re-emerged from nodding their heads a little lower. The robins have returned, and the quail. When the rain stops, I will return too.
— Cristine
Which is completely ridiculous because I understand that everything is a practice. I love art and design- beauty is one of my core values. I appreciate beautiful writing- I’m reading Olga Tokarczuk right now and just wow. I marry artists. My former husband is a painter. My current is a photographer. (Maybe that’s part of the problem) I love museums, art, culture, music. Much of my second career has been spent working in the arts. I’ve run a symphony orchestra, I programmed a summer music festival, I am a champion of public art. I’m an arts enabler.
When I was young, I was told I was the smart one and my sister was the creative one. So I sailed in that direction. I remember an art class in probably 5th or 6th grade- it was taught by a wonderful older man who would project the masters from a slide carousel and make funny word associations so we could remember them. I was captivated- I memorized them all. When we went to the Met, I stood in front of Guernica and cried. And when we did our own painting in class, I worked endlessly on trying to copy a Turner sky, but felt dejected when a classmate claimed it as her own. I remember that as a moment of giving up.
Where I have not given up is the garden. Rosa mutabalis, calamagrostis, artemisia, lavender, stachys byzantina. Some of the plants were damaged by the recent heavy snow, but they will bounce back. The daffodils have re-emerged from nodding their heads a little lower. The robins have returned, and the quail. When the rain stops, I will return too.
— Cristine
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