Artists

At the art museum my son said out loud “ I don’t like this one.” I shushed him. And kept walking.

I looked up to see my husband engulfed in a Native American Portrait. It had been painted in 1921. Beautiful. I could see my husband thought so as well. It’s rare when I get to see him able to stop and enjoy a moment. I love to see it.

We spent the weekend in a little town tucked away in the woods across the bay from Seattle. We drove a quarter mile through a gravel pathway carved out of trees. Pitch black darkness until you get to my aunts house, lit with twinkling lights that hang on the porch. A sign that says “Trailer Trash” instead of “welcome” as my greeting.  Each dwelling on a 5 acre parcel surrounded by all kinds of trees and ferns. I settled in then I sipped red wine in a camp chair. We listened to blues blasting over the speaker my cousin had set up outside. All of this from a secluded homesite tucked away in the center of a forrest.

The next day we rode bikes down to her private waterfront. I’m starting to think her welcome sign lied to me. This doesn’t feel like trailer trash.

I stood there on the beach. My daughters were choosing all kinds of fancy rocks that had marbling of different colors. They were mixed into the sand. It’s amazing how sand is always a different shade depending on the beach your’e at. I sat down on a big boulder, not a person in sight besides my girls. The Puget Sound was rippling up over the driftwood, rocks and sand. The water is my favorite kind of view. It always makes me feel so small. Knowing the water could just swallow me up. Knowing that there is a world of colorful creatures living under the surface breathing different than me. And it dawned on me, Gods an artist too. Ever notice how He writes stories? Speaks poetry? Paints the sky pink and blue? Chooses eye colors and hair textures? The trees and the flowers and the animals…history. All recipients to His creative imagination.

And then I thought about all of the minutes I’d spent enjoying someone else’s art. Like murals or the paintings or my favorite pair of shoes. We all have a side that is creative, it just comes out in different ways. Big sky scraper buildings in Seattle. Gods painting of the hillside filled with colorful trees. Eddie Lees sculptures, a beautiful scene carved into a rock. Kanye west producing a song. I imagine it like there’s a beat or an inspiration that comes from a sound he hears, like a car door shutting.. he needs to get it out of his mind and onto a recording. Then, like all of the other artists he presents it to us to listen to. It makes me wonder how many artists never share their creations..

I like to paint pictures. I like to sing sometimes. I like to process moments and then write them onto paper into a story. I’ve never really shared any of my art with others. It feels vulnerable. Scary. I’m nervous about the opinions of others not liking my secret things. The parts of me that I like to keep to myself. I do the artsy things for myself. Because I enjoy the way the brush feels under my control. How the paint smears under the bristles. I enjoy the sound of the keyboard under my nails. I enjoy re reading my entries. I think it’s finished. But then a year later I’ll re read and see a detail I’d like to add. Or maybe I’d have an epiphany and my perspective has changed. Time to change the writing. It’s not finished. Art is never finished. But at every stage I find it beautiful.

Before this trip I wrestled with the idea of sharing my art with you. I was nervous about the tempo I spoke at. I was worried about how I structured sentences. I was worried if you’d be offended that I occasionally say curse words. I was worried you wouldn’t agree with my opinion. And then I started to notice all of these artists all around me and how they had to be brave. I noticed how my son said out loud he didn’t like one of the paintings and how I was actually fond of the one he said was ugly. He didn’t like it but he was still there experiencing the art.

I had a career as a nail technician for 10 years. When I started doing nails, I noticed I didn’t paint on canvas as much. I was already scratching my creative itch when I performed the art of nails. When I decided to transition out of nails as a career, I thought about what I would do instead? What would I do to satisfy my artistic side? And then I realized I had already started. I just was too shy to share.

I’m changing the way I share my art. From now on you’ll hear my voice or read my words instead of seeing my tiny paintings that have been placed on my sculpted canvases.

I put my nail brush down and picked up a pen. I journal my perspective. I transfer the paper and pen version into an online version. Typing it into existence. I press record. I read aloud into a microphone. Now it’s been transferred into a vocal art piece. My voice, my perspectives, my words all out there for you to stop and listen to.

We went to an art museum. I listened to Zach Bryan and Kanye West and Donny Hathaway. I walked the streets of Seattle. I looked at wall murals. I went through my aunties jewelry box. My daughter was gifted a pair of boots. I walked through an entire store filled with hundreds of rocks and wood and bones that had been carved into all kinds of appealing things. I enjoyed the scenery crafted from Gods fingertips, sourced from His imagination.

and I wrote about it all.

“Here goes nothin” I say to myself as I share it with you.