There is a moment whenever I am painting, especially after a long hiatus, when a sense of oneness envelopes me. When everything–the smell of linseed oil is fused in the breathing air, the heft of the brush disappears into its movement , the strokes of paint become a dance of colors that meet and merge and sometimes collide to remain distinct. The visual pull-back and reentry from one small section to the entire canvas is another dance: full-body and effortless. It is when expectation and experience drop away, leaving the sheer joy. There is no place for doubt, or ego, or intellectual analyzation. No space for sentiment, or criticism–wishes or wants. Just being.

When I stood on the beach last August and heard that quiet voice, I knew I was hearing a truth. Not anything surprising certainly, since I’ve been seeking an answer to my constant question for decades. “What do I want to be when I grow up?” But on that morning, when the sounds of the ocean and the air and the birds were so powerfully loud, I was able to hear the almost whispered response.

So I took that quiet voice, shoved her into some crammed corner of my disorganized conscious brain, and set about working toward my “dream.” I looked for an outlet to support myself both artistically and financially, and began making “product.” I then went about in my typically scattered fashion trying to “build” this future business and life. I registered, logged-in, signed-up, signed-on, signed-in everywhere. No really, EVERYWHERE. There are dozens of sites sitting on my Google page, and countless others on the Google-reader–rarely read. I subscribed to a vast array of blogs, info sites, online markets–ticking them off the in-box with usually a quick glance and quicker sort. Delete this, leave that to read later, and of course file. I’ve spent serious chunks of time creating, filling and sorting through files. On four–FOUR–email addresses. At some point in the dregs of winter, I got the bright idea of creating email “drafts” to myself. These hold notes and sites I intend to address and deal with more immediately than the rapidly accumulating piles in the folders. And this is just the email section of my day.

I’ve also bought and registered numerous url’s, created a “presence” on multiple websites of my own, including several blogs I can’t seem to find. Any “artists” site I notice gets a quick registration from me, followed by a cursory upload of information and “product” photographs. There are two “shops” on Etsy and another on 1000markets.

Then of course there is Facebook. As of this morning I have 290 friends on just my personal page, some of whom are also “followers” (or do we now call ourselves “likers”) on my artist pages. Yes, pages–there’s one for the wearable and another for the fine art. Regardless, there are many I’ve nothing from since we “friended” each other. Still, I put in an easy hour this morning alone, reading posts, and looking for responses. Ah, responses. So many beautiful things posted, so many kind responses to my works.

Now we are at the problem. Lately I’ve been noticing a slight itch just under the skin, and an incipient full-body headache. I know this state as well as I know the ink tattoo on my thumb. It’s a voice that is usually willing to sit just outside my conscious brain, quietly observing, silently ingesting my daily flurry. But when my flailing begins to drift toward the edge of real trouble, that voice seems to grow. In frequency and volume. In pure presence. There is a palpable pulling and shoving from this voice, and when I can shut-up the martinet shriek of my conscious thought-stream, I hear her. Crystal, imminently coherent, undeniable–the message is always the same. “Paint, we need to paint.” It is an observation and a directive. It is always, right.

And then there comes that moment. Just being. I have no idea what measurement of time that moment fills, but it infuses every part of my being. I’ve looked at canvases or paper hours, days, years after painting and have no conscious memory of what stroke began where–and yet retain the feel of the brush in my fingers. It is the place I have been forever. It is the place I am meant to be.

So I’m taking this time, making this choice, opting for this path–and all those other good euphemisms for shutting down my participant self–just for a bit. It isn’t that I don’t learn and grown from all of the media that surrounds me, and and feel supported by all the friendships and contacts. But there is a time for quiet, and this is mine. In a wonderful talk the other night, my husband spoke to me about his own desire for silence. And after all, when the colors and music begin to merge there is a wonderful hum. I like that.

I love all of you. I’ll see you later.

It’s happening again. I’m turning from the news channels to sweet guitar, not responding (or really reading) to political-thrust posts. The sound of Keith Olbermann’s voice sends me out of the room. Magazines and even junk mail are being sliced into piles of images and words without reading the articles. Am I entering some annual isolationist phase–moving in fear and depression to a dangerous denial of the world’s woes? Nope. I’m just sitting on the floor, playing with toys.

Actually, I’m surrounded by watch bits and product tins that have painted, not paper labels. There are bags beginning to be filled with paper towel and plastic wrap tubes. Boxes of pencils and paints are being stacked. Paper in various forms: drawing, cardboard, tissue and construction is beginning to be piled. Glue, brass fasteners, clips and clasps fill another area, nestled with my trusty punches and scissors. And of course those wonderful yellow boxes of crayons. There is nothing like the smell of a fresh box of crayons. Even more motivating than the smell of the painting medium I mix, the crayon box is a whiff of new, of possibility.

These are some of the tools of a teaching artist. I’m preparing for the annual summer program I teach. Gathering my supplies, gathering my thoughts, moving into the place where I give myself permission to play.

Whenever I am with a group of teachers before a school term begins, I notice the childhood remembrance of gathering supplies. Whether books or fade-less paper for the bulletin board, there is an air of expectation. This seems though to evaporate as the economy-driven restraints kick in.

Artist teachers though seem to take another approach. I’ve met colleagues in the thrift store, culling the goods for interesting fabrics, papers, tools. Each time there is, even when accompanied by some horror story about the facility or administration she or he is housed under, a quiet glee. There is something joyfully subversive about buying bargain-bin buttons for your students’ collage work.

This gathering of my tools also flips an innate trigger in my brain. All art, all the time. This of course is partially the factor of being paid for what I do. The paycheck that justifies dots of tempera paint on my skin and smears of glue on my jeans. The paycheck that gives me the permission to buy the double rolls of white ribbed wallpaper (which made fantastic portfolio covers) from the thrift store. But it also informs my personal art.

When I am in this period of living my teaching, breathing my art–I am always freer and more open to my own creative self. Because the tools are already in my hands, I am more ready to work. The ideas not only expand, but are more quickly acted on. My painting is both more instinctive and better executed. I see more, photograph more, reach out to other artists more, share more, create more.

Surprisingly, I find I’m better organized–more efficient in this state. Closets are sorted, shelves ordered, workspace structured; perhaps to be more effective, perhaps listening and adhering to the cardinal rule I give my students. That every art project (no matter what it is) has three stages: the preparation, the doing, and the clean-up. I always stress to them that no one stage is more important than the other, and the “doing” can’t work without the other two. This is when I talk about the dreaded time-suck of looking for the lost hole-punch and the death of a paintbrush not washed properly.

As I look around me at the gathering storm of tools and toys, I am reminded that each time I enter this special space I come with an intent to stay. Not to pack the over-nighter for a visit, but load cartons for the permanent move. A friend gave me a Smith & Hawken’s “gardener’s bag” one year for my birthday. With the multiple pockets inside and out, the inner space, the rugged canvas–it immediately became my art bag. Once that is packed I can go anywhere, create most anything, certainly teach everything. Perhaps that’s all the luggage I need.

Because I am reaching the age where many of my friends are beginning to retire, I keep hearing statements about “putting away the briefcase,” “dumping the suit,” and “trading in the 9 to 5.” Perhaps because I never really entered or functioned successfully in the 9 to 5 world, I’m not eligible to “retire.” Perhaps though, as an artist, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I often think of Matisse’s “Cut-Outs”–a wonderful expression of the artist ability to keep working, even when one’s faculties begin to diminish. Or Calder’s collection of wires, metals, paints and tools left in his barn/workshop at his death. I now have an image of Louise Bourgeois’ final days preparing for an exhibition. All “serious” working artists, all infused with an ability to play.

Maybe this is the year. Certainly, this is the day to live in the power of play.

Quick–what’s wrong with this scenario: Seated in a spacious dance rehearsal studio with 40 or so other visual artists, dancers, drama creatives and musicians. I notice through the 30ft. high wall of windows that the evening sky is full of dramatically sculpted white clouds against a deep blue. Then I see what must be a full flock of crows diving and shooting past the windows to take shelter in the nearby tree tops. The blue quickly deepens to almost black as the thunderstorm we’ve been promised throughout this 95 degree day is bursting over us. I glance around the room and see many others looking toward the window at the amazing display. But no one rises from their seat and moves to the window. No one. NO ONE! We all remain seated.

Why, you ask did no one move–were we being held at gunpoint by terrorists, handcuffed to our chairs by the Feds, victims of some mass Krazy Glue prank? Nothing that benign. No, we were finishing a mandatory workshop to prepare us to teach art to elementary age children in a public school summer program. In this last session, “Job Alike” groups (meaning each art discipline seated together) were practicing an “Arts Integration Lesson” in compliance with our state’s “Standards, Indicators, & Objectives.”

We had already been through two hours of “Professional Development.” This included “Making Curriculum Connections,” “Core Values in Art Poster Criteria,” “Quantitative Literacy,” and my personal favorite, “Character Development, Classroom Management, and Motivation.” The major thrust of the evening was to encourage (read: require) the implementation of “Character Counts: The Six Pillars,” which apparently is the current public school guideline.

Alright, not a bad concept. But when our first speaker begins with, “If you don’t teach respect–you might not get it. If you want respect, you have to teach it.” Hmmm, red flag going up. Pink 3 x 5 cards were passed for us to write our desired responses from students. I wrote: “sharing, honesty, empathy & caring.” But from around the room there was, “ownership, responsibility, integrity and of course, respect.” Our speaker was delighted, “Respect, the Mother of the ‘Traits’!”

Okay–I’m in the wrong room. Again. And yet I sat quietly. I did not stand up and yell, “What is wrong with you people!” I did not ask what the pit bull focus on classroom decorum and “appropriate interpersonal behaviors” had to do with teaching art or sharing beauty. I did not demand that someone explain why there is never, ever an effort to “infuse” reading or math with any of the arts. No, I just concentrated (with some real difficulty) on maintaining a pleasant “face” and “cooperative attitude.”

And I did not get up from my seat and go to the windows as the storm came in.

Finally, (FINALLY!!) the workshop ended. As I left the building, I was filled with that familiar sense of failure, loss and waste. The “not fitting-in,” and a huge weight of self-disgust wrapped around me.

It probably didn’t help that I’d spent the afternoon working with panels of raw canvas I’d splash painted. It certainly didn’t help that while I worked, I was nodding my head in agreement to TED lectures. Marian Bantjes proving graphic illustration can be creatively beautiful and still successful, Elizabeth Gilbert on genius and nurturing creativity, and perhaps most dangerous to re-hear, Sir Ken Robinson stating obvious truths about the power and simple logic of creative education.

The fact is, I’m a wonderful arts teacher. Especially with children. My approach is always to share beauty. To open our eyes and really see. I teach the color wheel by looking at leaves on a tree and shadow by looking at an egg on a crumpled paper towel. I teach by asking questions and waiting for all the answers. I respond to most questions with, “What do you think?” I teach real terms and techniques. And I never, ever, ever touch a child’s artwork without her or his permission.

There are simple rules in my groups, and each one is explained with its reason. I keep a few scuzzy paintbrushes to demonstrate the consequences of not cleaning up. No one draws or paints on both sides of a paper, this teaches honoring the work that is being done which is more important than the cost of the paper. When a project is finished, the group walks around the room, hands behind our backs, to see what each other has done. My only intolerance is for meanness. Angry, frustrated, sad, silly, careless, down-right lazy can be accepted. But no one is allowed to be mean. Ever. Including me.

I’ve had 4th grade children come back to me after a summer course and tell me they got in trouble with the school art teacher using terminology like “monochrome” instead of “friendly family colors.” My favorite was the child who was told she couldn’t possibly know what “chiaroscuro” meant–even though the drawing she showed me clearly demonstrated the concept we’d worked on the summer before.

I teach that declaring yourself an artist makes it so, that there is no wrong way to see and that failure is just another learning tool. So how can I leave a meeting like tonight’s with such a sense of self-doubt. Maybe it was the tapping inside my brain. That the kind of approach to education delivered tonight is the antithesis of what I believe is effective. That I need to do something besides passively accept what I know doesn’t work. It certainly could be the rising awareness that it’s time for me to get out there and do what I do best. Teach. Without compromise.

The storm had passed as we left the building. The road, the grass and trees still dripping with rain–the air thick and wet, but measurably cooler. The moon was rising from the southeast and the western sky was an incredible display of color. An enormous bank of cloud moved northward, its middle ripped open with almost neon hues from the setting sun. This was a stop-in-the-middle-of-the-street-sky. And I did.

I’ve long believed that whenever we need an answer, who or whatever we call our god will give us a tap. While I’m sure some of us are nudged by a gentle thump–I’m more the 2 x 4 across the back of the head kind of kid. And that’s what I got–standing in the middle of the street, grinning at the sky. Time to move, time to get busy. Find the way to do what I do best. And never, ever again sit still in my chair.

When I bought my Amtrak ticket for my trip from Washington, DC to Richmond, VA it occurred to me that while I dearly love trains I hadn’t been on one since 1980. This thought ramped up my excitement for the trip, and may have put a different spin on my attitude traveling south.

I noticed the usual commuter buzz in the early hour at Union Station. A wonderful mix of riders moving, waiting, lining up for Starbucks. Briefcases sitting next to duffles, lo-rise uber-skinny jeans next to designer suits, babies nursing next to executives–and everything in between.

That I wasn’t commuting–already stressed about a meeting or conference may have made my reaction a little softer than others’ as the message board flipped from “On Time” to “Delayed” just as I sat in the waiting area. Perhaps the novelty of traveling by train kept me from joining the gripes I heard around me as we boarded.

I was happy to find so little crowding that I had the double seat to myself, and a fairly clean window to shoot photographs through. Settling myself for the two-hour trip I realized so many around me were already asleep. I also remembered the description my mother has always given me of my childhood–that I wouldn’t sleep outside my own bed, “Because you were afraid you’d miss something.”

My photographer’s eye, that had popped open as soon as I reached Union Station, was now widened. The tracks, other cars in the rail yard, bridges and buildings in the near distance look very different from the inside of a train. And of course the sky. Early morning clouds pushing against a still deep colored sky seemed as if positioned for better shots.

Once we were out of the station and city proper, the other riders moved and then settled themselves. The bathroom, the snack car–all in use. I had the thought while swallowing pieces of “blueberry flavored” muffin that my old practice of taking a picnic on every and all trips while my children were young was probably a better idea. Or at least to snag something while at the stations’ Starbucks next time.

Just a few miles out of town, I was then set for several hours of shifting between photographs through the window and notes in my journal. The train passed highways, snaked through woods and through fields. Areas near stations brought businesses and traffic-filled intersections to view. Large areas of water opened up from time to time. Tree-lined creeks and expanses of river with the occasional boater or heron moving into my focus.

It occurred to me moving out of one station, noticing the beauty of the graffiti coating the underpass wall, that it was similar but different from the art I was seeing on idle box cars or metal-wall sheds. I wondered if within the world of graffiti artists there is a conscious shift in approach depending on the surface painted.

The most interesting town we passed through was Ashland, where after leaving the station I noticed a row of beautiful turn-of-the-last-century houses, their deep front yards almost flush with the track shoulder. I turned to see the same view from the opposite side of my rail car and it struck me that the tracks were set in the middle of the street. These were not decrepit shacks, but grand white ladies seen throughout the south.

The short run between the suburban station and my arrival at the “Main Street” station in Richmond reminded me of the trip I made more than 30 years ago. The interior of the old Main Street has changed very little. Restoration-chic seating areas, but the same wrought iron throughout. The same up-close view of the girders and spans of the overpass. Even some of the old, very old small business buildings hug the opposite side of the street, looking as near collapse as they did three decades ago but obviously thriving.

I talked to the daughter I was visiting about my trip, the same route she has traveled for years–from college and now from her work and home. We talked about the sights and views you don’t see from the highway. The freedom of sitting in a rail car rather than navigating traffic while driving, my consciousness of being in the conductor’s care rather than constant awareness of vehicles around me. The being able to give myself entirely to the trip–the sights and sounds. That I was happy I’d forgotten my iPod earbuds, but sorry I hadn’t packed a picnic breakfast. Finally she said, “But mom, most people don’t look at taking trips the way you do.”

That was one of the many truths I hear from my children. But it was also a reminder–a artist self smack on the back of the head. Like so many of us, I travel weighted with stuff. Books and tools for the job I’m driving to, agendas and to-do lists that over-pack my brain, fresh memories of slights and neglects I’ve recently delivered or received. The destination becomes the only objective, often not only the end-stop of the route I’m driving–but two or three trips to be made later that day. All of this baggage makes my shoulders hurt and narrows my vision.

Not that I’m suggesting any of us are capable of making every run to the grocery or work a spiritual journey. It just seems to me that I had a much happier ride than many of my fellow passengers on that train, and perhaps lightening my “luggage” on a daily basis may make the road a little more enjoyable.

The prompt for day 4 of Bindu Wiles’ “21.5.800″ challenge suggests writing about fear. Interesting that I missed that post on Friday. I was sitting with my adult, post-op daughter–holding her hand and experiencing the incredible courage she gathered as she faced her fears and began her recovery. Sitting on her porch later, I thought about fear. Her fear, my fear, fear on a global level. What power fear can have to immobilize us, what power fear can have to change us. What power fear can have to teach us and strengthen us.

I believe that what most of live with “What if it isn’t going to be alright?” as our primary fear. The “it” morphs from moment to moment—action to action—encounter to encounter. Sometimes the “it” is something serious that we have to face emotionally or physically. But so very often it is a nebulous, nameless fear of ourselves, our lives, our relationships not being ultimately “alright.” This I believe is because we all live in an ever-shifting level of hope. Hope that we will be loved, healthy and safe, and that our work will be good. With those hopes there is the fear that whatever we are seeking will not be realized. That fear then edges into relationships and makes giving fully to another, or to our work constricted by the fear that our gifts will not be accepted, appreciated, reciprocated.

We rein-in our creative selves when the fear of failure overtakes our visions. We diminish our dreams when we focus on their potential fruition or failure. The cliché of the blank canvas is a very real terror for all of us. Equally paralyzing is the what happens when the finished piece isn’t published or submitted and becomes chained to the never ending re-write or touch-up—until the added fear of not being perfect overwhelms and destroys hope. Then the story sits in a folder, the painting is turned to the wall, our voice again gagged.

There is though, in this journey toward being a whole creative self, ways I am beginning to see that I can not only work through my fear—but also work with my fear. Fear then may become for me a tool, a learning base. But only if it is named, understood and shared.

Sometimes there is that moment before the plane takes off, or the roller coaster reaches its first crest that I feel the grip of “Wait—I don’t want to do this!” Self-preservation 101. Recently, driving into the Hampton-Roads Tunnel I felt that panic. Entering the mouth of the tunnel I flashed on the insanity of going into an enclosed space where “the roadway is 108 feet below sea level at the lowest point.” But that I was driving at 50 mph in fairly heavy traffic with my youngest daughter sitting next to me, reality quickly pushed the fear-filled moment past.

It was another lesson though, in the “just do it” vein. Forward motion pushing through fear. Some of my best drawings come from just dropping ink onto paper, and then figuring out the next step. Hitting the “publish” button is becoming as emancipating. Repetition helps when a similar fear seizes me again. My reasoning being that if I could overcome the fear was last time, I am probably able to again. Hopefully it becomes a muscle-memory that lessens future terrors, and I become more comfortable with my fears. To learn to live with them but not under them is the goal. I never expect to be “fearless.” I don’t believe any sentient being can be utterly without fear and I also respect healthy fears. Some dark alleys shouldn’t be entered into alone and I really have no business climbing onto the house roof to clean the gutters. But to understand what I am really afraid of, why those things make me fear-filled, and how I can share those fears may help me work toward what I really seek.

One of the greatest challenges of course is not just to name the fear. Most of us can and some of us are even able to name the cause and reactions with specific fears. What I believe is more difficult is to ask for help, sharing our fears and accepting support can be even more terrorizing than the fear itself. All the implications of trust and faith pop up like Medusa snakes.

But as the positive practice of examining a fear and determining what the “worst” outcome might be lessens the fear, so is checking my behavior when I am filled with fear. Acting on my belief that sharing my fear is always better than sitting with it alone becomes easier each time I do it. After all, for most of us the ultimate fear is death. Not just our lives ending, but the death of a dream, a relationship, a chance to try again. While I believe we are happier and healthier when we acknowledge that we are all going to die at least physically some day, I also believe that there is nothing more powerful than holding someone’s hand when we are afraid.

Today I begin Bindu Wiles Challenge, 21 days, yoga at least 5 days each week, and writing 800 words every day (see the purple badge to the right).

When I saw Bindu’s post last week I was immediately hooked. What a gift, i thought–a structured, time-defined period to regroup and grow. I believe I was the third of what is now hundreds who responded with a “Oh yeah, I’m in!”

As I begin, I’m mulling the “why” of my and so many others’ response. Why are we so quick to gravitate to an exercise like this. Why am I so eager. First, I believe the place we have found ourselves is the antithesis of what is needed for a creative life. Each day Mashable drops a list of what’s new in my inbox. Most days I scan the list of whizbang apps and gizmos and delete the email. This weekend though, at the annual Folk Festival where my family performs each year, I realized that while I was there to hear music including Koto players and my own guitarists and cellist–my bag was heavy (being the family “roadie”) on my shoulder from carrying two digital cameras, a Flip video camera, two iPods, and two cell phones. And at some point, every gadget was used. The feeling of “how did this happen” was especially poignant when I noticed that in a montage of thirty years of “festival” photographs was a shot of me with my first infant taken in 1984. The equipment I carried that day probably included diapers, and my breasts. And my major concern would have been to let my baby absorb the music and be present for her daddy’s set.

At least for me, Bindu’s challenge offers a step back, a step away from the constant onslaught of sound bites and techno flashes. A quiet place apart from the traffic of daily life. An opportunity to find the road back to my creative self.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this urge. The blog reading I’ve been doing since December tells me this quest to return to or begin a creative life is a motivator for many. Just today, powerhouse Danielle LaPorte writes “11 things to do (and not do) when you’re burned out.”

Why is this so hard? When I’m in the midst of any visual art–painting especially, I move almost instantly into Flow. Flow, that marvelous state where I am absolutely at one with my work. Time has no impact and can pass before I realize I’ve been at the easel for hours. During the periods of Flow, I am physically, mentally and spiritually one with what I’m doing. The feeling after is always a sense of peace. My body appropriately tired, my mind fresh from where I’ve been and where I will return, and my soul humming the quiet song of being right with my world.

There is muscle memory to this process. I know when the canvas goes up on the easel, and I get the first smell of linseed oil mixed with turpentine and varnish that I can let go and move. There is no conscious thought of how to hold the brush, or which color first. The muscles, including my eyes were trained to move so many years ago that they just do. More importantly, I trust that they will. It is the theory that repeated motion over time instills automatic movement performance that gives us the ability to tie our shoes or ride a bike without conscious effort.

This challenge then, 21 consecutive days of writing should logically build some muscle memory. Practicing yoga follows the same. But the question still lingers. Why do highly creative people need this kind of effort. I know the benefits, why isn’t this already a constant part of my day. Why am I not moving quietly through as a creative self.

Ah, look at the excuses. That I’ve stopped writing three times in the last half-hour to get my teenage daughter out of bed. That minutes from now I will drop her at school, pick-up cat litter from the store and, and, and. And perhaps not get past the 684 words I have until much later. Later, when the draw towards “getting done” is stronger than “doing.”

If I know the beauty of being lost in a canvas is an absolute, why do I allow the space my easel stands become a mess of clutter and stuff. So there has to be a solid effort to clean and organize before I can even find the linseed oil. How many of us do this. How many of us don’t. And where do I really want to be.

Perhaps then, that’s what I’m seeking in this challenge. Not just to find the way to my creative life, but finally give myself permission to live it.

I noticed yesterday that after multiple days of excessive heat and humidity and a clearing storm, not only was the air cool and drier–but the clouds were huge in the sky. “Beach Clouds,” my husband said. I think they were playing. Showing what they could be when not shrunk by temperature and ozone. Playing in the sky. As we all should be.

As I move on down the road, I’m interested in the growing ease with which I plunge into some new venture, and when I don’t achieve the hoped-for success, am able to regroup (mentally at least) and continue forward motion.

When I teach, especially children, I always try to establish the concept that trying something new and not succeeding isn’t failure–it’s learning. That the only time we truly “fail” as artists, and as human beings, is when we stop trying. It’s a great lesson that I find I’m more comfortable with as I age.

One of the exercises I teach, and try to follow myself, is to review and edit my work during a “regroup” period. This can take the form of making a list of what I have done well and what hasn’t panned out. It often though is a process of physically looking at files, portfolio pieces and any other existing art. And then the ruthless kicks in. Once I’m in the editing mode, I’m much more set to really sort the keepers from the trash. The pieces I still love and am happy with go into one pile. The others are re-sifted for any salvageable parts–and then recycled or pitched.

One of my greatest mentors would pace through the studio throughout each class period. The students there just to get the grade received no comments. The few of us she felt were committed to their work would get short statements as she passed. “More movement,” “There are other colors, you know,” “Stop now!” and the dreaded, “You know what to do with that.” Yeah, we all knew where the trash cans were.

The first time I heard the statement of doom, I had been struggling so much with a drawing that I was beginning to wear through the paper. I knew it wasn’t working, knew it wasn’t going to work, but couldn’t stop. Hearing the her confirmation, I was at first insulted and angry. And then I really looked at the drawing.

The sense of a fresh start was palpable. The new, clean paper was beautiful, and the drawing I then did–with the lessons I had taught myself from the previous failure–was wonderful. I still have the drawing tucked away. Saved not only because I still love it, but for the life lesson it taught me.

I asked my teacher after completing the second piece how you know when to trash a piece and start again. With that same emotionless face she said, “You just do. The truth is always in front of you. You just have to be willing to look–really look at the work for itself alone.”

Almost 40 years later, every time I feel something isn’t working, I can hear her voice. I get the itch to sort through, clean out what doesn’t work, and move forward. And when I’m scrupulous, this process works with all of my life, not just my artwork.

And always, on “trash day” when the truck takes the bags and empties the cans from the driveway, I have that wonderful “fresh start” feeling. Just like a new piece of paper.

Interesting. The many ways to move through life seem to inform what life becomes. We all aspire to the mindset of living in the moment, leading our lives with full richness as though each day might be the last. At least for me, the minutae of “getting it done” becomes a mindset that becomes as helpful as being nibbled to death by ducks.

Clearing the brain, firing the committee in the head, acting on creative impulse. All good intentions–what most creatives want. And sometimes by following this approach there are rewards.

Standing at the row of left-over tomato plants, with my brain already focused on the next errand and the cell phone tucked against my ear, I realized the largest and healthiest plants had no tags. Dilemma. I could tell by the few blossoms that they weren’t cherry’s but looking at some of the scraggly plants (with tags) I could be getting standard, dark purple, yellow or multi-colored.

I got a flash of “whatever” and took the biggest and healthiest. I also felt I had scored one for the “in the moment” side of life.

So as I stood this morning, soaking the soil around each plant, something caught my eye. There was a humming bird hovering around the plant cages. Holding the hose steady, I watched this little beauty actually perch on the tomato cage wire. Just for a moment it was still. Just for a moment I got to see it’s incredible green body.

If that isn’t a message, I don’t know what is. And whatever color tomato that plant produces–it will be fine with me. Truly, I don’t plant things just for the harvest. My bounty is the butterflies that love the zinnias, the birds that share the raspberries, and even the rabbits that keep me from planting lettuce.

One of the definitions for “evolution” is: “a process in which the whole universe is a progression of interrelated phenomena.”

Hmmmm. Artists are always striving to evolve, to progress, to move forward in who they are as artists. What they create, the tools and materials they use and even the avenues they choose to present or market their work. No working artist is consciously eager to chance being static. Stasis tempts all kinds of blocks. So we always try to stay on the move artistically. Much of the movement is inside our heads. Frequently so fast, the thoughts and ideas flit through our brains and never see fruition. Often these gadfly concepts surface days, weeks, years later in totally different forms than our original idea. But such is the nature of the artist’s brain. Change, movement, evolution. All good. It keeps us fresh and our art fully alive. It allows us to be open to new ventures and sometimes gives us wonderful gifts of different paths to follow.

What happens then, when the fear kicks in? When what non-artists think of as “the Voice of Reason” raises the volume with all the “what if’s,” “buts,” and of course the deadly “shoulds & shouldn’ts.” Then the Hesitation Shuffle becomes our theme song. The end result being not only sleepless nights and other stress-exhibiting ills–but the horror of the BLANK PAGE!! This blank page that grows (in our brain at least) larger and emptier every moment we are unable to work.

So what, as creative people, do we do to stay on that working path and avoid slow death of stagnation. How about seeing progress as a learning tool. What about seeing change as an integral of play. Sometimes that movement is a simple as using a different material or tool. Always, ALWAYS forward movement is found in taking chances. I found that one of the perks of finishing a BA in Studio Art at the age of 50 was an easier willingness to experiment–to play. When I was absolutely stuck in a canvas, my instructor suggested I over-paint a thin coat of whatever color I never used. The breakthrough was almost more enjoyable as the horror-struck faces of my 20 something fellow students. The end result–who knew I had been hiding a love of orange from myself!

These artistic leaps are somewhat easier working in digital media. The original image always remains as some stored file. So each evolving step produces a new and different image. All distinct–yet all tied to the original. This is my thought then on creative evolution as an artist. Keep what we know, file those early works–I’m not advocating splashing an ink wash over the Mona Lisa. But move with the impulse. Take the offer and figure out the timetable later. The worst case end is a learning-experience failure. The best case is a new path, new work, and fun.

I’ve been advised through the years to pick one art form and stick to it. Make painting, or photography, or textile art my primary focus and relegate the others to hobby status. Okay. Well, one of the benefits to having a healthy, artistic level of oppositional defiant disorder is that I have never listened. So on any given day I may work photographs while the paint is drying on wearable art canvas. This lets me work out the structure of a handmade book while I’m mowing the lawn.

The wonderful freedom is the willingness to accept whatever is offered. Example: within the last few weeks I’ve submitted art-teaching applications, submitted samples of artwork (in a variety of mediums) and applied for entry to a number of both online and physical arts fairs. So this week has begun with sending PR about my India Ink Paintbox shop of photographs inclusion in the newest papernstitch exhibition. The week will end with two days in Richmond, VA with my Wearable Art at the Arts in the Park Show, and in between I’m planning the art classes I’ll teach this summer.

Phew. Alright, I’m nuts, but I think this is what we as artists are meant to do. Take chances, take changes, build our skills with tools we’ve never thought of using. The photo at the top of the page is one of my favorites. I remember the day I shot it, remember leaning into an exhibit of orchids to get the shot. The images that I morphed from that shot are no more or less important to me. But it’s a different kind of fun.

When we begin a journey that is a different path from the one we’ve become comfortable on, there is always some trepidation, some confusion, and usually a lot of second-guessing. Moving out of the comfort zone is always initially exciting. But any pause in the forward motion brings the doubts.

I notice in many if not most of the blogs I follow, by both women and men, artists and business persons–the thrust of the posts have to do with making good life/creative/business choices–and maintaining the forward progress.

The new venture is wonderful–the follow-through often is the killer. Seth Grodin’s post this morning on Deniability, “…At some point, that effort becomes so great you never actually ship anything, which of course is the best protection against failure of all.”

Yup, that’s the trap. My artworks on paper were tapped to be exhibited on Papernstitch–something I’ve been working towards for a year. Another step towards my goal of living as a working artist–at the beach.

The invitation came in Friday evening. Can I be ready before Monday–of course. Do I know how to set up the site–no brainer. And how do I spend Saturday? Pulling ivy off windows and the fence, ferrying children, laundry, preparing meals. Those things in themselves are not the killers. Yardwork is always good for mental sorting and planning. And I do still want to be the whole person, the mother, wife, friend. Read, “Have it all.”

The real killer is sitting down to load the site and immediately beginning to anxt about the banner. After all, this is the presentation of who I am as this artist. Hmmm. Which font, placement, art or no art. How much of me can I jam into 990 x 100 px. Which of my hand-drawn logos to use. Does this mean I should revamp the other site’s banner. Can you hear the blood pressure rising? And then my favorite editor, (and husband) notes that on the other site I’ve used a logo image that has nothing, NOTHING to do with the site’s title. Doesn’t the work stand on its own? OMG!!!!

So back I go to the banner for the new site. And in fact–the font I had picked isn’t particularly readable.

Here’s the good part. The “cut the crap” and just do it kicks in. That clarity of just doing the task with the understanding that I can look at it in the morning. That I trust the sunrise fresh eyes. That I truly believe there will be a sunrise everyday. And in that fresh light the truth of what I am doing will be well lit and obvious. That the sunrise is enough. So the rest of my day can now be spent loading images on India Ink Paintbox, and maybe even a little creating. And that is also enough.