Not an Artist

I am definitely not an artist. I once fancied that I could be, hoped that I could be. When I'm having conscious days, breathing, yes, this is where I am supposed to be days, I believe that I live my life artfully. Those days are not as frequent as I like them to be. Those are the days when all's right with the world, no matter what's going on in the world. Yet, no matter how I'd like it to be so, it ain't so. I am no artist. Maybe I am a crafter - but not a very good one at that. Mostly, I am just a woman who must create. Even when I'm not very good at it, even when it frustrates me, even when it frustrates everyone around me; I must create. And I come from a long line of women who apparently felt the same MUST, who heard the same silent voice calling. I've known women in my family to create SOMETHING while waiting in funeral parlors, I've watched my grandmother sit and weep as the crochet needle flew. I've listened to my aunts hold their breath and curse (yes, really, those proper Southern women did!)and stomp away from the sewing machine only to return minutes later. What is it? Whatever it is, it was sure in evidence while these dolls emerged from my hands.

No great works of art here, not even fine craft. But the process, oh the process of these dolls. At first, I cut them out because I'd been given some pink pleather (yes, really, honest). Now, what do you do with pink pleather I ask? Toss it. That might be, though not green, wise. But I couldn't toss them. From out of nowhere, from the ethers, something said, "that's a Dotee doll!" So, I obediently cut them out and stitched on faces. I hated them. To small, too skinny, plain. This is not working. I don't like these dolls. (Some smart alek who happened to be in close company said something which sounded vaguely like, "You hate every project you start!" but I'm sure I did not hear properly). No, this is different; I really did not like these dolls. Not because I was learning something new, not because I was making mistakes, or getting sloppy. I just didn't like them! I tried to explain how this was different from all the other times I said I hated something but person in close company was unswayed. By now, I'd obligated the little dollies. They had to be completed.

The HAD to be completed. So. I completed them. Not much fancy stuff going on here - something had to be done and I did it. Yet somewhere along the line something shifted. Very slowly. And......after a stitch taken, I looked and........I liked her. Wow. I liked this dollie. REALLY. Now that they're done, I still like them. In fact, I like them a lot. If someone else had made them, I'd want to buy them. Aren't they just quirky? Silly? Goofy looking? They went to the salon together and got their hair frosted. My mind's eye has seen short, animated stories starring these two. By the end of the process, I really had bonded with my dollies.

This happens a lot - not just to me. How many times have you begun painting a room that with what you were sure was the wrong color? Or begun a dish and at first, with each testing bite you were sure it was a failure? How many times did I practice a piece of music and it just wasn't "right," or didn't suit me but by the time the obliged performance was scheduled, the piece and I had become One.

Is this because things must be whole before we can fully experience? Is it because over time we come to like something as familiarity wraps round the item and its maker? Or is it because we really shift and see something differently?

Whatever it is - I've learned, yet one more time, to trust the process. Thank you Ram Dass.

Hey! Go make a
dollie !




~Lee