Artist Dates: Remembering What Makes Your Heart Sing

“It’s so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.” – Paul Cezanne

Yesterday I went to the art supply store. Alone.

I wandered the aisles looking for inspiration, hoping to catch a hint of that feeling – you know the one: that little leap of the heart and hitch of the breath – that whispers possibility. I haven’t felt that way in a while and my world had become numbed with the distractions of everyday life.

Neither the bright papers, colorful yarn nor glittering beads spoke to me, but when I reached the row filled with canvases and brushes I felt it. I started hyperventilating ever so slightly. Instead of ignoring that feeling, I listened.

Then, on impulse, I reached out and gathered up armfuls of canvases of all sizes: tiny squares, giant rectangles, and medium-sized glowing white planes wrapped in plastic and smelling of infinite potential.

And I hugged them.

I stood in the store and hugged an armful of blank canvases, eyes closed, breath held, caught in that tingling moment when infinite creations might spring into existence.

Across the aisle, the brushes – with their springy nylon crowns, gentle sable points, and coarse boar-hair tips, rough like tiny brooms — all stood expectantly in their displays, inviting me to gather a bouquet of them as a child gathers wildflowers. The colored pencils in neat rows, the brand-new erasers in crinkly packages, and spiral-bound sketch pads with textures ranging from smooth Bristol to rough deckle all called to me.

And I listened. Then I walked out empty-handed, because I have all of these things at home.

It wasn’t supplies I needed, but reminding.

I needed what Julia Cameron calls an “Artist Date” – time to remember what makes my heart sing. In this case, I simply needed to be reminded that I am an artist as well as a worker, freelancer, and planner-of-birthday parties. I need to create as much as I need to breathe, but I had forgotten. But then I remembered, and it made me smile.

Dear Reader, do you sometimes forget who you really are, and what makes your heart sing? Have you taken yourself on an Artist Date lately? What do you do that helps you remember?

Beware of Artists

Actual McCarthy-era poster

Creators are a dangerous bunch. If we’re any good at what we do, we’ll probably make at least one or two people feel something. Think a new thought. Even have the occasional insight or two.

They might even get mad at us.

And that possibility (of being rejected or openly criticized) can be terrifying, causing us to freeze or get writer’s block or suddenly find that vacuuming the house is infinitely more urgent than picking up the brush, camera, or keyboard.

Making something new — and not giving into the fear of disapproval — requires a certain kind of bravery. Or insanity. Or arrogance. Or faith — take your pick.

But remember this: even if someone disapproves, it means they felt something. You (the artist) still win. Once someone has had a feeling or a thought they cannot un-feel it or forget their insight. Which is why art is dangerous.

And no matter how silly or insignificant or “bad” you may think your art is, never forget this fundamental truth: the world needs to feel and think and have insights. The world needs your art. The world especially needs good art, but any art, even practice-art, is important and necessary.

So take a deep breath, and go out there and be brave, crazy, arrogant, and faithful. Bring something new into the world, no matter what others might think of it.

Be dangerous.

Of Love and Loss and Futons

Walter Lee Howard IV plays with a Slinky at his 18th birthday party

Let me tell you about my friend Walter.

First — spoilers—Walter (actually the resplendently-named Walter Lee Howard the Fourth) is no longer traipsing around this particular reality, having recently passed on. He left a huge Walter-shaped hole in the universe, and those of us who were lucky enough to know and to love him are missing him dearly, alternately crying and laughing and crying all over again as we try to come to grips with our collective loss.

L-R: Russell, Walter

When I look inside my heart, I still see him seated on the sofa, peering through his glasses with a glimmer in his eye, holding court, telling larger-than-life stories, and being charming and opinionated and brilliant and unforgettable.

I tried to think of something profound to say about Walter, but it’s funny how sometimes it’s the smallest things that stick in your mind, so I’ll say something little instead.

The little thing is this: “Men are futons.”

It’s something Walter once said when a group of us, impossibly young college students at the time, sat lounging around a rented beige living room like a pile of puppies, watching something on television – probably Star Trek.

We had all – a jumbled crowd of boyfriends and girlfriends and crushes and casual acquaintances and longtime friends — just settled in on the taupe carpets and tan couches; the young women were leaning against or in the arms of the guys, and the room was quiet, expectant, waiting for the show to start.

Walter looked around at the group and said, “Men are futons.” We all laughed, because it was true.

To this day, whenever I find myself snuggled against my husband (who was there, and my futon-boyfriend at the time), watching Sherlock or Doctor Who, I still look up at him and say, “men are futons,” and think of Walter. It’s a ritual.

L-R: Curtis, Walter, and Edie. Curtis is cracking up because Walter is sporting a huge jeweled clip-on earring.

Of course, this seemingly insignificant memory reveals a lot about Walter: that he had a knack for making people laugh, for one. He was good at brilliant observations, or saying the thing we were all thinking but didn’t really have the nerve to say – and saying it in a charming, memorable way. He also didn’t mind being a futon once in a while, which speaks volumes about his kindness and generosity and warmth.

Today I dug up some of my favorite old photographs of Walter and his friends, taken when the world was new and we were all ridiculously beautiful and young and still had plenty of hair. (Click any image for a larger version).

I hope they make you laugh and cry and smile – and remember to appreciate your futons (of whatever gender) while you can.

L-R: Julie, Tom, Julia, Walter, Lila, and Greg at the lake

Walter, Julie, and an antique form of iPod known as a “boom box”

Clockwise from left: Julie, Lark, Lisa being squished by Lark and Walter, Walter, Edie, Lila, Kelly
The first week of college at the University of Texas

The Human Face of Big Data Book is Published!

We made a thing! The Human Face of Big Data, the coffee-table book by Rick Smolan (that I helped ghostwrite this summer), is out, and getting some decent reviews. Over a hundred photographers and a big team of writers worked hard to pull it all together.

The book examines Big Data in our lives and the internet-ification of everything: the good, the bad, the creepy-Big-Brothery, and the really, really cool aspects of it all. I learned a lot and had a blast working on the project and know my colleagues did too.

Anyway, here’s a nice Associated Press article about the book, if you’re curious: http://bigstory.ap.org/article/data-new-physical-book-chronicles-virtual

Write on –

Hanging From A Zip Line Over The Abyss

someone, please, take photoshop away from me

So you’ve begun. You’ve done a tremendously brave thing and taken a chance and jumped off that (metaphorical, unless you’re hang-gliding), cliff. You breathed deeply, closed your eyes, maybe yelled “Geronimo!” and you’re off on your next great adventure/project/bucket-list item.

It’s exhilarating at first… but then the hard work starts. You lose your way. Things get tedious: the muscles and the mind and the willpower groan with fatigue. The inner critics tell you that your work sucks and you’ll never finish and even if you do everyone will find out that you’re a total poser and a loser. Distractions call from every corner, promising progress and relief and fulfillment of “shoulds”.

Halfway across and hanging on for dear life, your momentum is threatening to slow down. You can’t go back, don’t want to let go, and there’s either no clear end in sight or if there is, it’s a long way off.

Now what?

In a phrase often attributed to Winston Churchill, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”  Or less delicately, “KBO (keep buggering on)”.  It’s both an encouragement and a warning; stopping might mean getting used to hell, which isn’t a good condition to be in for anyone, but especially not a creative artist.

So keep going. Finish the project even if it’s a piece of crap. You can always go back and edit later, and even if you don’t you’ll have learned something about your craft and about yourself.

And you’ll be able to look back and know that You Did It. You finished the marathon even if you didn’t win – you made it across the abyss and the world is a slightly better, more interesting place for your having made the effort.

KBO, dear readers, KBO.