musings on art journaling... and making art...
WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE BELOW
My Aunt Syndea is an artist. My dad, her brother, refused that moniker. He said he doodled. "Those aren't art," he would say when we exclaimed excitedly over his myriad of characters drawn on napkins or pieces of paper or on the edges of mail he'd received. "My sister once drew a leaf on a piece of notebook paper with a pencil that was so realistic that I reached out to pick it up and didn't notice that it was shades of gray. That's art." I disagreed.
I tried for a decade in different subtle and less than subtle ways to get him to save his art for us, as his kids and grandkids. Doodle pads made of napkins, little pads of paper and the pens he loved most with letters tucked in begging him to please fill them, one for each of us. Before he died from COVID two spring's ago he had developed really serious arthritis and it stole a lot of the doodling from him and so also from us. He never did ever fill those fucking notebooks or the napkin book I sent him. It's still sitting there in the original box.
Heartbreaking, frustrating and mercilessly filled with loss, that fucking terrible unopened box and the damned joke journal inside made up of napkins for every doodler ever born. (Above is an image of the actual journal I sent him... Archie McPhee isn't making them anymore.)
And the one that lived right next to my own empty journals and notebooks so that I could send it to him as soon as he filled the first one. That one was becoming a poltergeist. It whispered to me every time I open the closet to find a blank journal or little notebook and dress it up and mail it out to a friend or customer. "I am an entirely unfulfilled heirloom. An empty inheritance. I represent the emptiness of antiquity from 45 years of your life gone without collecting even one doodle, one sketch... one piece." I have put it in a box to go the hell away from me to the thrift store finally, because things that haunt us should not live with us in places as prized possessions. Had he FILLED it then it would have a place of pride out where anyone who visits could see it and ask about it. Empty and haunting it has to leave.
So, all of that to tell you THIS... 2022 is the year of not being precious with my work, my supplies, my creations... stop holding myself back... believe or just feel and have fun... and whatever else, do what brings me joy and worry about the hard stuff later. No more Insta-worthy white sterile and meaningless "perfect shots" of my items for Etsy listings or trying to be perfect in every line, every detail and every thread when we all know it's a damned lie. 2022 is the year that I really claim who it is that Ruth is and let her just be and make and have fun.
And with that comes a realization that I am irritated when I see videos where the instructors insist that you MUST use these expensive paints or pens or paper that costs more than I made last year off of my Etsy shop. Ask yourself this... in 150 years where will it be? Be realistic. I'm an actual optimist and my answer isn't going to be what you think after the pain in the start of this post.
Where will MY art be in 150 years? Landfill. Compost. If ANYTHING survives even 50 years I'd be honestly surprised. There are a lot of us creating and making and doing things and the truth is we're doing it for ourselves. That's what creatives do. An incredibly small and miraculously lucky few people will become BIG KNOWN NAMES in art even for the 15 minutes of fame period that everyone is shooting for. The rest of us MUST be happy in making for ourselves. We're not going to be discovered. If that's why you're making I am sad for you.
The point is that I'm not going to live long enough for my art journal pages to fade from sunlight exposure. Nothing I'm making is going to be in a gallery and require special UV protectant glass because, "these were her early years before she understood the importance of spending thousands of dollars on her art supplies." The concept that anyone other than my son and a few close friends might want something I drew or sculpted or crocheted or wrote even as a keepsake isn't entirely unrealistic, and there are already 100's of those out there because I've gifted what I make to everyone I know and even to strangers in art swaps and by selling or pitching away to thrift stores.
Paint with what you have. Draw what pleases you, not what sells. Just have fun!
And do save some. Set it aside so that you can see it and appreciate it and love you for making it. And if your son/daughter/sister/brother asks you for a thing, give it to them. That's the one in a million chance that you'll go forward into antiquity and make a pessimistic asshole out of me for saying you'd be lucky if... :D
What I've been doing.
Making Happy Mail letters... different styles... they'll go up in the shop in part because I KNOW I can use them up myself if they don't sell, and because I'm not making a profit on them, so... LMAO I HAVE found incredible writers, poets, artists and creative people whom I have been able to buy from to make these things at least feel exceptional when they're received. It wasn't cheap and I didn't want it to be. Kindness should just be awesome, and I have good taste.
I AM excited to say that I've found one artist who is going to see if he can make me small prints of his art to be included in mixed media happy mails... OMG... the kindness and awesomeness of people blows my mind, it really does.
The first thing below is actually on the way to Germany to an artist who makes the best frogs for my frog themed happy mails. LOL She didn't know what happy mail was and had never gotten one. OMG! (I'm being silly on purpose. Of course I wanted to send her one.)
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