stART

     I was five months away from graduation when I learned there was a problem. I was apparently a half credit in arts shy of meeting the Tennessee required minimum standards for a diploma. There was a reason I was a half credit shy, I was kicked out of Art I a few weeks into my Freshman year and never took the class again. I hated art and just a few weeks into the class I told my teacher, Mrs. Hunter, just that. I thought it was a stupid class, a stupid concept and I didn't see the point of making me take it. I was kicked out of class, which made me happy because I couldn't quit, and went on my merry way to study hall and never looked back, until I needed that credit to graduate. I wound up taking a music appreciation for the credit and graduated never having to endure that stupid art class, and again, I never looked back.....until recently.

     For years I have felt like there were things I wanted to say, or more accurately, I needed to say.  Thoughts, feelings, ideas, memories, commentary, observations, criticisms. Things that were strong enough that they demanded a release. Perhaps you've experienced the same thing. Have you ever felt like your head was going to explode or that you had a 1,000 pounds sitting on your chest? Maybe you've been restless and inconsolable. For years I would sit in my office at the church and listen to hundreds of people sit across from my desk and weep or rage because they had been holding something in for so long. They would tell me things that they had never told anyone before, but had been dying to tell someone, anyone for a long time. They had been holding these things inside until they practically burst with emotion. If only they had found their voice sooner, perhaps they could have had a pressure release and avoided painful mistakes or regrettable words and actions.

     I have contemplated these things for many years and struggled to find my own release. I never liked art because I didn't understand art. I understood the really "good" art (Mona Lisa, Whistler's Mother, the Sistine Chapel, etc), but the other stuff didn't make sense to me. Many times I thought that a lot of art was just scribbling or paint splatters or random things glued to a table and that anybody could do that. I knew that I didn't have the training or ability to do the former, and that anyone could do the latter, so I felt art wasn't for me. It is only recently that it struck me, that is what art is all about....anybody can do it. You can get formal, detailed training, but you don't have to do that in order to enjoy it and express yourself through it, in much the same way that you can train to be an Olympic ice skater or you can just go ice skating and enjoy yourself. In terms of art, I am the latter.

     Initially I chose writing as my form of expression. I have been writing since a fourth grade creative writing class with Mrs. Franklin, so it was something I was comfortable with. What wasn't comfortable for me was letting others read what I had written. When I wrote I wrote for me. The idea that someone else could read it and dislike it or worse disapprove of it, was terrifying, so I seldom let anyone read anything I wrote. But then I realized, this was essentially the same as just keeping it in. It is the conscious decision to invite someone else in that truly brings the release. So I began blogging. Initially it wasn't that scary because I had no idea if anyone would ever even see it, but then someone commented on something I had written and I realized someone is reading this. You may not realize it but I have a minor panic attack every time I click "publish." When I write I write honestly. It may not be popular, it may be sharing too much, it may be too personal or make most people think "who cares." But when I write it makes it feel like I'm releasing a balloon of stress, fear, anger, anxiety, disappointment, or whatever. I still enjoy this form of expression and certainly consider it a form of art, though amateurish, but it just isn't enough. I feel like I have more to say that I am just not yet comfortable saying through written words, so I have decided to branch out into something I never thought I would be involved in...art in a more traditional sense.

     Last week I finally acted on something that I have contemplated for a couple of years now. It all began with a trip to City Park in New Orleans and the sculpture garden behind the New Orleans Museum of Art. I saw complex pieces, simple pieces and some that I didn't understand at all. Most all of them spoke to me and fascinated me. More than anything they motivated me to do the same. A close family friend with formal art training helped along the way by answering questions and explaining things I didn't understand. It took months for me to decide on a medium for my expression and more months to figure out what I wanted to say, but finally, it all came to fruition and last week I created my first piece and I was proud of it, even though I didn't even know what it was, I was proud of it and the process of it. I had to ask my friend to tell me what it was (the reply was, "an installation piece of mixed media").  It's funny, but the trigger that set this all in motion for me was so random and coincidental that some would have seen it as a sign. I was making notes on my phone and apparently hit the caps lock as I was typing. The resulting message was "stART". Later when I went to read the note "the light went on." Start and Art. It was as if my subconscious was giving me the push and the hint that I needed to take this next step in self expression, so I did. 

     Everyone has something to say. Some find their voice early on and spend a lifetime expressing it. Sadly, some never find it and spend a lifetime swelling inside to the point of bursting (and some do). Others take a while to find it, but they eventually do. Much like a child learning to speak or to walk or to feed himself, they stumble, mumble, ramble, fall and make messes, but eventually they learn. For some it is writing, for others dance or sculpting, and some perform or paint. Expression is called art. I get that now, and my only regret is that if I hadn't gotten myself kicked out of that class freshman year, I might have enjoyed this satisfaction the past twenty-five years.