My husband never ceases, without even trying, to remind me everyday why I love him. He is such a bastion of staid and cogent thought, concern and advice.
As we all know, I have been hiding out in my bat cave bemoaning the quality of my life of late. It's been a struggle to merely work the 4-7 hours I work at the cafe without needing a nap or a good cry. And the thing is, I like the cafe...it, along with my husband, is responsible for keeping me sane this past month. Regardless, I have been a mess. 'Nough said.
Tonight, I needed the kind words of my husband, whispering in our bed, telling me thoughtful things because I have been feeling so down. The thing is, I am a very prideful person. I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad. What I do know is that I am my own worst critic. I hate that I am not good at things immediately. I hate that, while I am OK at a lot of things, I am not great at anything. Though the positive aspects of being able to dabble and understand a myriad of things is not lost on me, I often wish I could just choose one thing and floor people with my talent at it. Whatever it may be.
This evening, needing a bit of an ego boost, I asked my husband to tell me something he thinks I am good at. He said "Lots of things. But you are not going to want to hear them." I wanted him to say writing and I was prepared for him to say "Listening" or "Snuggling" or, I don't know "farting!" So when his first thing on the list was"writing" I was pleased, though it didn't stop me from begging the question "Are you just saying that because you're my husband and you have to say that, or do you really think it?"
Why is it I am always looking for external reassurance? And why is it that I am not more patient with myself?
For instance, this painting thing. I am so frustrated when I see things in my head that I cannot translate to paper or canvas because I lack the technical know-how. I find it unbearable to the extreme. And my inclination is to say "Screw it! I'm no good!" and move on to the next big thing. I look at artists I admire-- Thiebaud, Wyeth, Hopper to name a few, but also contemporaries, many of whom can be found all over the internet, like this guy, and this gal whose work I greatly admire and tends towards the whimsical--and I wonder how they got so good at what they do. It's like I forget that a lot of it is practice. Seldom do we get to see the rejected works of good artists. And seldom do we remember that even the best artists are known for struggling with their endeavors. Take for instance this quote from Willem de Kooning:
Art never seems to make me peaceful or pure. I always seem to be wrapped in the melodrama of the vulgarity.
I feel that same sense when working on various projects. Whether it's painting, drawing, writing or crocheting. Though I do sometimes lose myself and forget time (and though I tend to feel the "vulgarity" less when it is something like crocheting a scarf) more often than not, I feel like am in a struggle. With myself, with my tools, with my knowledge, with time. There is little more frustrating than to see an image or experience a memory and be unable to process it through the appropriate channels and with the appropriate mediums--whether it be film or pencil or pigment--onto paper.
Tonight in whispered tones, my husband confessed he wants to read more of my writing. He mentioned wanting to read the "novel" I started writing for NaNoWriMo. I sighed, "But it doesn't go anywhere or do anything."
Without a pause, without a moments hesitation, my clever and lovely husband replied, "Neither do trees."
I was rendered speechless.
Going forth, I vow to not give up, to continue making crappy paintings and writing bad poetry and sewing crooked handbags in an attempt to one day paint one painting that I kind of like, write a poem that is not too terrible for other's consumption and to sew a handbag that I would actually carry in public. And most of all, I will try to be more forgiving of myself. And others. If I do nothing and go nowhere, I can still provide strength, support, and emanate beauty and life.
From now on, I will be the tree. And I will love the tree. Swaying in the breeze.
My husband never ceases, without even trying, to remind me everyday why I love him. He is such a bastion of staid and cogent thought, concern and advice.
As we all know, I have been hiding out in my bat cave bemoaning the quality of my life of late. It's been a struggle to merely work the 4-7 hours I work at the cafe without needing a nap or a good cry. And the thing is, I like the cafe...it, along with my husband, is responsible for keeping me sane this past month. Regardless, I have been a mess. 'Nough said.
Tonight, I needed the kind words of my husband, whispering in our bed, telling me thoughtful things because I have been feeling so down. The thing is, I am a very prideful person. I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad. What I do know is that I am my own worst critic. I hate that I am not good at things immediately. I hate that, while I am OK at a lot of things, I am not great at anything. Though the positive aspects of being able to dabble and understand a myriad of things is not lost on me, I often wish I could just choose one thing and floor people with my talent at it. Whatever it may be.
This evening, needing a bit of an ego boost, I asked my husband to tell me something he thinks I am good at. He said "Lots of things. But you are not going to want to hear them." I wanted him to say writing and I was prepared for him to say "Listening" or "Snuggling" or, I don't know "farting!" So when his first thing on the list was"writing" I was pleased, though it didn't stop me from begging the question "Are you just saying that because you're my husband and you have to say that, or do you really think it?"
Why is it I am always looking for external reassurance? And why is it that I am not more patient with myself?
For instance, this painting thing. I am so frustrated when I see things in my head that I cannot translate to paper or canvas because I lack the technical know-how. I find it unbearable to the extreme. And my inclination is to say "Screw it! I'm no good!" and move on to the next big thing. I look at artists I admire-- Thiebaud, Wyeth, Hopper to name a few, but also contemporaries, many of whom can be found all over the internet, like this guy, and this gal whose work I greatly admire and tends towards the whimsical--and I wonder how they got so good at what they do. It's like I forget that a lot of it is practice. Seldom do we get to see the rejected works of good artists. And seldom do we remember that even the best artists are known for struggling with their endeavors. Take for instance this quote from Willem de Kooning:
I feel that same sense when working on various projects. Whether it's painting, drawing, writing or crocheting. Though I do sometimes lose myself and forget time (and though I tend to feel the "vulgarity" less when it is something like crocheting a scarf) more often than not, I feel like am in a struggle. With myself, with my tools, with my knowledge, with time. There is little more frustrating than to see an image or experience a memory and be unable to process it through the appropriate channels and with the appropriate mediums--whether it be film or pencil or pigment--onto paper.
Tonight in whispered tones, my husband confessed he wants to read more of my writing. He mentioned wanting to read the "novel" I started writing for NaNoWriMo. I sighed, "But it doesn't go anywhere or do anything."
Without a pause, without a moments hesitation, my clever and lovely husband replied, "Neither do trees."
I was rendered speechless.
Going forth, I vow to not give up, to continue making crappy paintings and writing bad poetry and sewing crooked handbags in an attempt to one day paint one painting that I kind of like, write a poem that is not too terrible for other's consumption and to sew a handbag that I would actually carry in public. And most of all, I will try to be more forgiving of myself. And others. If I do nothing and go nowhere, I can still provide strength, support, and emanate beauty and life.
From now on, I will be the tree. And I will love the tree. Swaying in the breeze.