working with my hands
quilting, drawing, healing my inner child
In the drowsy haze of too-hot days, I find my creative energy ebbing and flowing. Yesterday, I stretched my morning pages from three to five, whereas today, I couldn’t reach three before closing the journal.
Instead of writing in my bedroom, I went to the living room and began a new project: my first “art quilt,” my first attempt at thinking about quilting in the context of beauty and meaning rather than the context of utility. That isn’t to say that I don’t think there’s something aesthetically pleasing about my past (and ongoing) projects; I have always been carefully attentive to color and stitchwork. But this is the first quilting project I have undertaken for the sake of making a piece of art.
While listening to an audiobook, I chose my fabrics, ironed and cut them, pieced and sewed the quilt top, basted the quilt, chose the threads I’ll use for hand-quilting. It’s a small piece—twelve inches by sixteen inches—so it didn’t take more than an hour or two. But time always feels like a melty ice cream cone in summer, dripping slow. It felt like my whole day was absorbed by the quilting labor. (Such pleasurable labor!)
Recently, I’ve been feeling the tug of visual art. It’s a calling I’m never expecting; until a few months ago, I didn’t use the word “artist” to describe myself at all, and I don’t feel especially talented at any of my chosen mediums (quilting, collaging, drawing, painting). My art practices feel indulgent in a way that my writing practices don’t. It isn’t that I take the mediums of visual art less seriously—rather, I don’t take my art seriously, as if I’m detracting from the Real Artists. When I think about sharing my work with anyone, I feel like a kid who just ran off the school bus, eager to show their drawing to a parent, only to pause with their hand on the backpack zipper and change their mind because they’re afraid Mom and Dad won’t think it’s worth putting on the fridge.
That feeling is why I’m leaning into my art practices right now.
In therapy a few weeks ago, I spent a good part of session interacting with this flitty, buzzing part that flashed like a lightning bug any time I approached the deep, cool lake of sadness in my sternum. At first, I thought it might be the manager part that occupies my throat, tightening and forming a lump whenever my emotions swell to the limits of my control. But this little part kept flying from my chest to my fingertips and back again, frantic in its fear that I might sink too far into the lake. I paused my slow wading into sorrow so that I could cup the firefly in my palms and raise it up to my eye, moving my thumb to peek at the part.
There he was: me, a kindergartener with long pigtails, a purple shirt, bootcut jeans. I asked him to tell me his worry, and he told me he was afraid I would lose myself in sadness and forget to play.
I wrote an essay about the lake for my college magazine when I was a freshman. Back then, I often felt completely unmoored, floating in those chilly waters under a black, star-studded sky. There was no wading into the water; I was dropped from the sky, directly into its deep center. I did lose myself in the sadness then, and there was a time when I thought I was lost for good, sinking too deep, not strong enough to kick my way back to the surface.
Of course a part of me was afraid that might happen again.
To soothe him, I explained that I was approaching the water from the safety of my sessions, that I would be able to step backward if I felt like I was going too far, too fast.
But that wasn’t enough. I had to pinky promise that I would find time to play each week between sessions, that we would draw or sew or dance or walk through the park. Only then would he let me leave him, sitting cross-legged in the sand on the shore of sadness.
So, even though I struggle to feel like I’m making art worth experiencing, I make the time each week. I promised I would.
Despite my dream/wish/ambition to become a self-employed, multi-disciplinary artist, part of me feels ashamed when I spend time on visual art-making. I feel as though I’m using time that should be spent on writing doing something frivolous.
The only way to confront that part and help it heal is to do the “silly” thing anyway. And, surprise surprise, giving myself a judgment-free space to make art has proven to be beneficial for my writing practices, too. The robin I drew (above photo) is part of a new illustrated poetry project I’m starting. If the wall of writer’s block slams down in front of me, I still have spaces to be creative and keep my mind open to artistic possibility.
And spending time making visual art has introduced play to other areas of my life. I find myself going slower on walks, taking in all of the flora and fauna with a sense of wonder. The idea of writing a “shitty first draft” of a novel instead of trying to perfect every sentence as I go appeals to me more and more. Though things have been, for lack of a better word, super shitty lately, my artistic life has become more buoyant, expansive. The intentional practice of “taking myself seriously” as an artist has been helpful in many areas, but so, too, has making the decision not to take myself seriously at all. If I’m ever going to build a successful career as a working artist, I will need to embrace both sides of that pendulum swing.
If you struggle to give yourself permission to play, guess what? I’m giving you permission. We all deserve (and need!) time to play, and we should take that time back from the systems of oppression that hold us down any chance we can.
The world needs art—my art, and yours.
The universe decided to give me an attempted robbery as a birthday gift. Someone broke into our car to look for some cash, but—surprise!—we didn’t have anything worth taking.
Naturally, I turned to my favorite coping mechanism to deal with what was an unfortunately stressful situation: making memes. Here’s a brief selection of my creations.
And with that, I bid you farewell for now.
Oh nooooo! But I’m glad you’re being creative and also finding some humor in shittiness!