When I started playing around with art, in my mid-twenties, I used those bottles of acrylic paint that you buy at a crafts store. I bought the cheapest brushes possible, the kind meant for children, with glittery plastic handles. I bought small canvases, used the school's photocopier to grab great images for collages, and probably used Elmer's Glue to stick things into place. I had no money, so I spent as little money as possible.
Looking back, I find this absolutely fascinating. To think - once upon a time, I just made art, and didn't know what the hell I was doing, and was doing everything "wrong," and - oh my god - it didn't matter. Everything I made over ten years ago has held up just fine. The colors are great, the collages have not yellowed. The art itself, well, a bit maudlin, but from an infrastructure point my ignorance of the art world presented zero problems.
This is important to remember because in my advanced age, because I have become a gear junkie. For the past few years, this has manifested itself through my love of backpacking, a lovely outdoor activity 100% built around your enthusiasm and capacity for buying ridiculous and otherwise unusable gear and gadgets.
Granted, that obsession launched out of very practical concerns. I'm not a tall person, so carrying over 30 pounds on my back may not even be possible. Hence, the ultralight backpack, sleeping bag, and sleeping pad. And then the ultralight camp stove. And then the ultralight cooking utensils. And then the ultralight poles. And then the clothes. Oh dear god, the clothes. At some point I crossed the line separating logical from self-indulgent, although I did catch myself before purchasing a moose-themed ninja suit.
Perhaps not surprisingly, in the past few years I've also developed an art supply fetish. This isn't necessarily a bad thing and again, grew out of a logical need - because if you're going to try oil painting, you're going to need a l-o-t of supplies to get going - but due to my personal neurotics, it occasionally blows itself up into overly dramatic situations.
Example: yesterday I went to IKEA (first mistake) to buy a nice floor lamp which I was pretty sure might solve one of my most pressing 'art studio' problems. Three hours later, I found myself in near tears, horrifically depressed, and pondering my relationship to Death as I stumbled out of the Target I'd entered in a desperate attempt to cheer myself up.
To back up - my 'art studio' is our attic, which at its highest point is about 5 feet 2 inches tall. I have a 3 inch clearance if I remain in the room's center, but unfortunately slam my head quite a lot into the otherwise sloping wooden walls. There are a total of three tiny windows on 3 sides of the attic, which admit very little light and limited fresh air, meaning air circulation is poor and stinky lingering chemicals are high. Oh, and there is no insulation because I am just below the roof. So in the winter it is frigid, and in the summer it gets so sweltering hot that just today I discovered a warped bottle of walnut oil, which caved in and can no longer be opened. Dammit. Also, the electrical wiring appears to be original to the house, circa 1937. I have a lot of adapters strewn about in case I need to plug in anything modern, and unplug everything at the end of the day so as not to burn down the house. Very annoyingly, my husband will occasionally visit the attic and remark on what a great space it is.
Yesterday, thanks to dim lighting on a cloudy October day, I realized for the first time that the crap lamp in the corner, which shoots light nowhere but the low ceiling, was a) a crap lamp and b) could be replaced. Given that I often whine about how I can't write or draw upstairs after dark because of the bad lighting... you'd think I'd have realized this sooner? But my brain doesn't work this way. So after a quick Google search, I was off to IKEA.
I realize now that you should take into account the height of a low ceiling when you're buying a 6 foot tall floor lamp. I realize now that when you are already upset about wasting your precious time, going to Target to literally kill time will only further depress you. I realize now that you should go to IKEA only during dinnertime, if at all, on weekends, because at least then only 15 people will be in line ahead of you for returns. I realize now that home improvement provoke utter despair within me - because they always eat up so much time, time you could otherwise spend being happy and productive and full of life! - and so should at all costs be always avoided.
But really, what had happened is that I invested so much emotional energy and promise into that lamp, and not being able to fulfill this promise was weirdly devastating. That lamp was meant to be a life-changing lamp! I saw myself able to read in the studio, draw in the studio, bask in the glory of being able to see in my studio! From the moment that 6 foot tall floor lamp left marks on the ceiling of my 5 foot tall attic, as I desperately tried to jam it into fitting, until I found and tested a replacement,* I was deeply sad. About a thing, really. About the promise of perfect gear.
It happened again this morning, when I too-late Googled that I should have primed a birch panel prior to painting it. The how-to book I was reading didn't mention this, but I thought the texture was a bit funny. So only after I'd slopped a ton of gesso and oil all over the pretty wooden sheet did I consult the Internet.
I almost burst into tears when I read that my failure to own sealer meant the doom of my painting lesson. Have I mentioned that I'm not a very emotionally resilient person?
I am trying very hard to be okay with this, and to carry on with the painting, reminding myself I like painting. I am not a professional artist. It is actually okay that I don't know what the hell I'm doing, because there is no rule book for art, just best practices. AND remember the lesson of your old art, and Elmer's glue, and how none of this really matters. It's just a hobby. It doesn't have to be perfect.
I feel like this is something I rarely realize, and so should probably tattoo it on the back of my eyeballs. Things do not have to be perfect. Things are rarely perfect. Don't believe the world when it offers you perfection; remember that large teams of well-paid professionals are paid for the explicit purpose of fooling you into thinking something is perfect.
There is no perfect ultralight camp stove. There is no perfect watercolor art supply list. The point of having things is so you can focus more on the fun, not so that the things can take over and replace your relationship to the fun.
*There was, by the way, a happy ending - I replaced the floor lamp with a clamp lamp, for $10. I was watercolor painting squids till 10:30 pm last night - a first since I have lived in this house.
Looking back, I find this absolutely fascinating. To think - once upon a time, I just made art, and didn't know what the hell I was doing, and was doing everything "wrong," and - oh my god - it didn't matter. Everything I made over ten years ago has held up just fine. The colors are great, the collages have not yellowed. The art itself, well, a bit maudlin, but from an infrastructure point my ignorance of the art world presented zero problems.
This is important to remember because in my advanced age, because I have become a gear junkie. For the past few years, this has manifested itself through my love of backpacking, a lovely outdoor activity 100% built around your enthusiasm and capacity for buying ridiculous and otherwise unusable gear and gadgets.
Granted, that obsession launched out of very practical concerns. I'm not a tall person, so carrying over 30 pounds on my back may not even be possible. Hence, the ultralight backpack, sleeping bag, and sleeping pad. And then the ultralight camp stove. And then the ultralight cooking utensils. And then the ultralight poles. And then the clothes. Oh dear god, the clothes. At some point I crossed the line separating logical from self-indulgent, although I did catch myself before purchasing a moose-themed ninja suit.
Perhaps not surprisingly, in the past few years I've also developed an art supply fetish. This isn't necessarily a bad thing and again, grew out of a logical need - because if you're going to try oil painting, you're going to need a l-o-t of supplies to get going - but due to my personal neurotics, it occasionally blows itself up into overly dramatic situations.
Example: yesterday I went to IKEA (first mistake) to buy a nice floor lamp which I was pretty sure might solve one of my most pressing 'art studio' problems. Three hours later, I found myself in near tears, horrifically depressed, and pondering my relationship to Death as I stumbled out of the Target I'd entered in a desperate attempt to cheer myself up.
To back up - my 'art studio' is our attic, which at its highest point is about 5 feet 2 inches tall. I have a 3 inch clearance if I remain in the room's center, but unfortunately slam my head quite a lot into the otherwise sloping wooden walls. There are a total of three tiny windows on 3 sides of the attic, which admit very little light and limited fresh air, meaning air circulation is poor and stinky lingering chemicals are high. Oh, and there is no insulation because I am just below the roof. So in the winter it is frigid, and in the summer it gets so sweltering hot that just today I discovered a warped bottle of walnut oil, which caved in and can no longer be opened. Dammit. Also, the electrical wiring appears to be original to the house, circa 1937. I have a lot of adapters strewn about in case I need to plug in anything modern, and unplug everything at the end of the day so as not to burn down the house. Very annoyingly, my husband will occasionally visit the attic and remark on what a great space it is.
Yesterday, thanks to dim lighting on a cloudy October day, I realized for the first time that the crap lamp in the corner, which shoots light nowhere but the low ceiling, was a) a crap lamp and b) could be replaced. Given that I often whine about how I can't write or draw upstairs after dark because of the bad lighting... you'd think I'd have realized this sooner? But my brain doesn't work this way. So after a quick Google search, I was off to IKEA.
I realize now that you should take into account the height of a low ceiling when you're buying a 6 foot tall floor lamp. I realize now that when you are already upset about wasting your precious time, going to Target to literally kill time will only further depress you. I realize now that you should go to IKEA only during dinnertime, if at all, on weekends, because at least then only 15 people will be in line ahead of you for returns. I realize now that home improvement provoke utter despair within me - because they always eat up so much time, time you could otherwise spend being happy and productive and full of life! - and so should at all costs be always avoided.
But really, what had happened is that I invested so much emotional energy and promise into that lamp, and not being able to fulfill this promise was weirdly devastating. That lamp was meant to be a life-changing lamp! I saw myself able to read in the studio, draw in the studio, bask in the glory of being able to see in my studio! From the moment that 6 foot tall floor lamp left marks on the ceiling of my 5 foot tall attic, as I desperately tried to jam it into fitting, until I found and tested a replacement,* I was deeply sad. About a thing, really. About the promise of perfect gear.
It happened again this morning, when I too-late Googled that I should have primed a birch panel prior to painting it. The how-to book I was reading didn't mention this, but I thought the texture was a bit funny. So only after I'd slopped a ton of gesso and oil all over the pretty wooden sheet did I consult the Internet.
I almost burst into tears when I read that my failure to own sealer meant the doom of my painting lesson. Have I mentioned that I'm not a very emotionally resilient person?
I am trying very hard to be okay with this, and to carry on with the painting, reminding myself I like painting. I am not a professional artist. It is actually okay that I don't know what the hell I'm doing, because there is no rule book for art, just best practices. AND remember the lesson of your old art, and Elmer's glue, and how none of this really matters. It's just a hobby. It doesn't have to be perfect.
I feel like this is something I rarely realize, and so should probably tattoo it on the back of my eyeballs. Things do not have to be perfect. Things are rarely perfect. Don't believe the world when it offers you perfection; remember that large teams of well-paid professionals are paid for the explicit purpose of fooling you into thinking something is perfect.
There is no perfect ultralight camp stove. There is no perfect watercolor art supply list. The point of having things is so you can focus more on the fun, not so that the things can take over and replace your relationship to the fun.
*There was, by the way, a happy ending - I replaced the floor lamp with a clamp lamp, for $10. I was watercolor painting squids till 10:30 pm last night - a first since I have lived in this house.
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