I’ve heard and read accounts by artists and designers who tell of knowing before they even put brush to canvas or pencil to paper exactly what the result of their efforts will look like. Colleagues in design studios would say similar things. Architects who completely understand every detail of construction and every nuance of the spaces that they create, before they see them built. Painters who plan their major works and have a clear picture in their minds of what they will create. For the longest time, I felt like my arrival as an artist and designer would only occur when I too could have such inner vision at my command. And I’ve felt embarrassed, insecure, jealous and inferior because it never happened for me. At 55, I’m pretty sure it won't. But I've stopped wanting it.
Tina's old cello case sitting in the front entry hall.
Nothing is revealed to me until the moment of creation. Pacing around my studio, lighting another pipeful of tobacco, drinking another cup of coffee, I’m really just gathering up the nerve to begin. To commit to some unknown goal and to risk the crushing disappointment of not finding my way there, to take the leap of faith that just never seems to get any easier. Sometimes I fight anxiety all the way through a drawing or design exercise, my whole body tense, my stomach muscles knotted, barely able to appreciate the experience. But, more often than not after years of doing it this way, something good happens. And sometimes I even get to enjoy the process as is unfolds, moment by moment. As for knowing what’s going to happen, no thank you. I can wait.
The studio worktable waiting for the week to begin.