Bird’s Eye Paradise

Shortly after my return from my first drawing lesson, I had a minor meltdown over the perceived criticism of my writing as “too depressing.”  I resolved to stop writing entirely and devote myself to art instead.  But perhaps the better lesson is not learning how to shut off my so-called left brain as my drawing instruction seems to demand — rather learning how the two hemispheres can work together harmoniously, using different platforms and media to stimulate more visual thinking and trying to tone down the stridency of my voice — allow a little happiness to filter through.

 

Today, I am confronted with an upside down drawing of a horse — the tomato salsa having been conquered temporarily.  I keep checking for air bubbles — signs of fermentation — and mold, a would-be unwelcome development.  Earlier this morning, I successfully completed the drawing of the face and vase — completely asymmetrical.  I continue to resist the idea that I must shut my left brain down, cut it out of tasks in order to achieve creativity.  I’m more interested in teaching it how to see — letting it in on the fun, so to speak.  And teaching it that creativity doesn’t have to be so scary.

 

With regard to the tomato salsa, I decided to try the technique of easing resistance slowly and incrementally, by committing to small, manageable and familiar tasks that served to gently nudge me towards my goal — rather than trying to attack my fear directly.  Accepting my anxiety and gradually allowing myself to let go of the tension and the expectation of danger that gives rise to my resistance.

 

Thus, I was not making tomato salsa, I was simply washing tomatoes — which survived mostly intact and evenly ripened in an open brown bag.  How many tomatoes was it?  What were the other ingredients?  Committing a simple recipe to memory, in order to make it feel less daunting.  I was not making tomato salsa, I was merely choosing and preparing my jars.  Washing them with warm soapy water and leaving them out to air dry.  This process lasted a full two days.  Both the jars and the tomatoes remained washed and dried on the counter, waiting for me to begin.  On Saturday morning, I even contemplated giving them away before they rotted — telling myself that I could always try again another time, with a fresh load of tomatoes.

 

When I did finally begin, it was a process of committing to an increasing number of steps until I had no choice but to complete it.  Chopped onions and garlic and coriander had to wait  in a bowl on the counter while I dashed to an appointment, but once that was done, I felt I had no choice but to complete the assembly, put it into jars and leave it to ferment.  What I felt was not a sense of accomplishment, nor of having vanquished some demon — rather, I had simply pushed myself to do something I wasn’t entirely sure I actually wanted to do, simply for the sake of proving to myself that I could do it.

 

I started making my own artwork as a solution to the problem of publishing other people’s artwork without paying for it — artwork that was intended to accompany my writing, but also became a separate form of expression for me.  I had to overcome my limitations, develop my own method and become comfortable with and even love and appreciate my own aesthetic.  It feels antithetical to what I’ve come to believe about myself to suddenly expect myself to be drawing perfectly straight lines or perfectly symmetrical drawings.  My problem isn’t with the fact that the image is upside down, but that it feels too hard to draw at all.  Mine is and always has been a problem of fear.

 

I doubt I’ll ever become an true adherent of fermentation, let alone an expert.  And as I find myself gazing lovingly at my wonky face-vases, I am forced to question whether I will ever be able to draw what I see, or whether I shouldn’t simply accept my own style and vision and let things be as they will be.

 

Illustration : Schalow’s Turaco