Fall has always brought with it a nostalgic pull that alternates tugging the corners of my mouth into a smile, then a frown, then back to a smile again. I’m not sure if it’s because my birthday lands on the first day of Fall, or if it’s the anticipation of being back with family during the holidays, but as the air shifts and the leaves turn, I find myself harking back to autumns past. Listening to bands like My Chemical Romance, The Mars Volta, and Coheed & Cambria, windows down as I drove myself through winding country roads to and from the barn three times a week. Stinging breaths of chilly air as I rode my horse through dressage and equitation tests, hands frozen in place but happy to not move them. Long walks to the shopping center near my house with my best friend, laughing off cat calls, contrastingly whispering about cute boys at World Market, and then buying all the snacks we could possibly eat. Nights beside a bonfire with my brothers and their friends, sneaking first sips of beer and feeling like I belonged. The warmth all these memories bring staves off the newfound chill in the air. My husband and I took a weekend recently and stayed at a horse farm in southern Indiana, simultaneously a much-needed getaway for both of us and an artistic retreat for me. These kinds of weekends were numerous as I grew up on the East coast. We could head to my grandparents’ house at the beach, or find a reasonable cabin in the mountains at a moment’s notice and just get. away. It’s not so easy here. Instead of two hours, it’s more like five to get to any mountains. There is no salt-water to speak of. And I have to say: flat cornfields are not as inspiring as the Blue Ridge mountains (I’m spoiled, I know). All that to say, this weekend was longed for and sought after with much anticipation, and I was surprised at the beauty that sits 2 hours away. Armed with oil paints, a cooler full of beer & hot dogs, and a 1000 piece puzzle, we arrived on the farm and were immediately in love. I could feel my chest swelling as I inhaled the sharp, sweet smell of horses & hay & dirt & damp while night fell and we unpacked the car. We puzzled, we drank, and we woke up to horses grazing outside our window. We hiked through rolling hills of grass & corn, through a wooded creek bed, and back to the barn to make friends with the cats. I hugged the horses multiple times. I sketched by the winding fence, painted atop a sun-lit hill, and Grant made a feline friend as he sat beside me writing haikus. After a night of grilling out, petting the cats some more, and finishing our puzzle, we woke up and made the quick drive to John Hay Lake. We sat and sketched and wrote some more. I almost cried. We left. It was perfect. It gave me hope that we’re making more autumns to look back on, creating new playlists to send us into fits of nostalgia, and gathering more memories to keep us warm when life gets cold. It also gave me space and time to take IN instead of constantly giving OUT. As an artist, it’s easy to feel like I’m not productive if I’m not constantly producing. The truth is, I need moments to take it all in, or what I produce isn’t going to be what I want and need it to be. It’s a cycle I need to follow, and I’m thankful for the ability to do so, a husband who encourages it, and for seasons that so accurately demonstrate that cycle.
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Well, I have a lot of them. Feelings of inadequacy, of doubt, of elation, of excitement. And the contradiction of feelings results in tension, right? A tight pull in your stomach, maybe a swelling in your chest, or the need for a deep breath. Well, that tension is why I create. If I didn't, I'm convinced I would be pulled apart by it all. Actually, I started to be pulled apart by it all. For about a year, I just stopped making. Those feelings of inadequacy, mixed with a still-new city, lack of community, and quite honestly a lack of resources, led to me pulling back and almost hiding from my desire to create. It seems like I thought it'd be easier to just not. But oh, ho ho, was I WRONG. Those feelings didn't just go away; they festered. I didn't realize that listening to the tension in my body and letting it out by working at this artistic career would actually help. And while that year was hard and sad and full of anxious nights and a bit of terror, it also made me come back to making with a vengeance.
Part of that vengeance is right here. This blog, yes, but mainly my work. Putting myself out on a platter (read: screen) for all to see and read and misread and misunderstand and understand and identify with and roll their eyes at. Listening to the tensions in our minds and bodies, slathering them on a canvas, slicing them out of a magazine, squishing them onto a piece of paper and shoving them in your face. I won't always be profound, or entertaining, and sometimes I'll just be quiet, but I'll be here. I think you should listen to me. |
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