For some odd reason the image of my art class back in high school popped into my head. What? This was. . . okay, I'll just say it. . . almost 30 years ago! Gasp! Double Gasp! Has it really been that long? Certainly, it does feels like years ago, but not that many years. Whatever, I'm okay with that.
Anyway, I can actually smell the smells of that art room: paint, pastels, charcoal. What's your pleasure? Mine was pen and ink--making small dots all over the page a bazillion times and discovering glory and triumph in the picture that slowly, painstakingly emerges. What a rush! Only it isn't a rush. That's what I always liked about that medium--it's methodical and takes absolutely forever. There's no instant gratification there, but the process is pure tedium and irresistible. Weird, I know. But this is what I like: mundane, everyday, process, life in the making. It's easy to love the moments of excitement--moments that are like no other and that anchor your memories and illustrate your story. What about the unremarkable moments? Don't they deserve notice or perhaps a few dots of ink?
Trudging, plodding, breathing. . . these are the moments I treasure and draw slowly and lovingly on the flawed plains of my heart. I exist outside the spectacular. I am ordinary. I am a former artist that still is.
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1 comment:
This was touching because there is nothing ordinary about you!
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