REFINAL DRAFT Paper #1,6/7
2727 words - Creative Autobiography
Carolyn Miller-Lopez
This is Me
I remember one of my earliest painting memories. I’d gotten a finger paint set from my relatives as a gift. Large rubbery plastic tubs babies that were connected by a thin umbilical in a clean sharp box with a smiling girl and a blue background. I had this deep hunger to use the new stuff. To open the box and invade the newness, exploit its “off-limits” quality. It was mine now – but Mom held onto it, “For a special time.”
Mom had sat us down at an old picnic table near our campsite and pulled out large printer paper with perforated edges and a clean line of baby punch holes. The cabbage green and white lined side was turned down, exposing the raw white backside. I dipped my fingers into the paint. There was a slight breeze and a deep calm and peace. The sun was at the cusp of the trees, on the edge of the hills. I pushed the paint around and it gloved my fingers with goop.
That’s Mom, passing by in the corner of my eye, she’s just gone to bathroom where I found the frog. The white cool tiles, the sink splattering on my knees, the dishes done… She’s wiping her hands on her purple shorts, her hair is down, pulled up on the sides in long pig tails.
The paint is thick and bright. It’s all about texture and violence as the colors clash in streaks though and against one another. My Father jumping out from behind the trees with a cup of water in his hand and my Mom’s high giggling shriek as the water hits her. My older sister’s fingers pushing around on her own piece of paper; and the pride that the paint she is using is mine and she had to get my permission.
I remember this – remember being happy and young and free. There was no pressure to create reality – only to explore the colors and be happy.
Once when Mom was shopping for her cloth I found a flier with a famous women on it. She was supporting a fundraiser. I was sitting in a corner of the store with my brothers and sisters and Mom was nowhere in sight. I tore out a piece of binder paper from my binder and began drawing carefully. I remember that I was shocked at the similarity, that I was getting it so realistic. From that moment on I didn’t have any trouble getting the correct representation of human features. No longer was a person defined by geometric shapes, they were carefully crafted according to their features.
As I got older, I remember this sense of pressure for detail. I hate detail, hate how it crowds into my senses and demands that I love it and present it as it is. I don’t want to represent them. I want to slash color around and find the form forming itself. I remember since the faces in my drawings were abstract I would add each blade of grass – each sequin on the purse, each eyelash, and shoe lace ex. I remember that the color made it real. I saved all of them, and looking back, probably because I wanted to prove to others that I was improving.
Art is the only way that I can freely express myself. It is also a way to study another’s vision. When I look at Monet’s work I see what fascinated him. I see what caught his eye. I like to draw people to understand my own understanding of that individual. What are the characteristics that stand out most to me. What is the Psyche of this person. I was able to reach beyond to a world that did not exist, but that wanted to in my mind, or to one that I wanted to study to be able to extend out through my own mind. In other words once something enters my mind it has a different interpretation than it has either through others minds or just as it is – and I like to reflect that through the output of art. I remember being able to read and make stories before I recall drawing. I recollect events that happened, odd feelings of the way the sun reflected on the floor and being sad or happy, but I can’t summon up specific feelings I had when I began to draw.
When I began thinking of being an Art major, on top of being an English major, my only concern was that I’d never taken an art class before. I wasn’t worried about being good; unfortunately, my parents had praised my art efforts way too much.
My first art class was a one to four studio, during my junior year. There was a large set up of tables that made it seem as if I’d stepped into a large modern square rendition of King Arthur’s Round Table.
The students were slouched with that first day of classes glaze. The chairs were paint splattered stools. I learned quickly that the tables were covered with dark charcoal dust, and that it would leave black stripes on your arms if you leaned against them.
The teacher came in, a thin wiry Norman Rockwell kind of man in a white hospital coat, followed by a tall Asian woman with strait bangs and a large shy smile.
Most days we were told to bring in still life objects; a hat, a chocolate Hershey’s bar, a few purse of pocket objects. I sat and hated the objects, hated that when I finished and circled the table, or during critiques, that my picture was by far not the best. What was my problem?
I was indignant that their art could be so good, and ashamed that I was indignant. (I guess you’d call me naive. I’d say I was an idiot. )
People were nice too. They showed me the ropes and said I was good when there was no discernable difference between mine and theirs. I felt like they thought I knew the ropes and I pretended I did, but I watched from the corners of my eyes and stole any motions and gestures they had that produced nice material. I felt like I was a fake and no good, beside the fact that I hated studying objects that lent themselves to nothing at all. I wanted to study the breathable – to convey the lost eyes and bleeding soul.
Day after day, the shadows elude me and the objects became more and more still while my feet danced on the stool slats. I often finished early. I guess that was all I was good at, rendering it quickly and accurately. This was my first art class, and at the end my teacher, with a mischievous twinkle, asked me what grade I wanted. That sure threw me off.
I dress elegantly. I know he is young and an artist. I wonder if he is gay because of his voice, and the strange sensual art he does on the side. I get to the café early and nervously place my art out of the way. Will he like me, like my work? I brought a slew, from my earliest scribbles to my present still lifes, and I painfully realize how little I’ve done in the past year that I’m willing to show. Inside my little black sketch books lie myriads of tortured victims locked in an eternal still agony. I like to study the poses – the faces; but not in public.
I am so nervous I’m beginning to feel sick. I don’t know how to act, what to do, what to say. I don’t even know what to look for. Fortunately he sees my searching eyes when he comes in. He looks homeless and energetic – fidgety as if he has another meeting after ours.
We introduce ourselves and he asks me what he can get for me. I don’t want anything, but he gets himself some tea. I contemplate that he is shorter than me. He wears a cap and a large coat, his pants are baggy and full of pockets.
We talk a little. I can’t remember the words after they’ve left his mouth, but I nod and make all the appropriate noises, so he thinks I am listening. Finally we get down to it and I show him my stuff. He doesn’t seem to really care. I’ve made an acrylic painting on canvas specifically for him, something I’ve never done before. I wait nervously as he looks at it and hands it back.
“What do you think?” I ask him. “It’s the first one I’ve ever done,“ I add quickly.
“It’s a beginners painting,” he says nodding, as if he’s acknowledging something I’ve stated.
So part of my reasoning for wanting to do this internship with this dude, was that I wanted to learn more about painting, and that was his primary medium. Our first Project? Some dinosaur mural in a millionaire kids bedroom. I soon found out that I should stick to shrubs unless I wanted to end up crying. Everyone else was so good and I was a poker. I dabbed and swung the brush around, and bit my lip. I even painted the carpet. It was pretty pathetic. I still feel the pain, the embarrassment. Once again I learn that I cant trust anyone to teach me what art is but myself.
Right now I’m in an NAC class focusing on art in the natural world. Our first project is using natural materials to create a work outdoors and seeing how it effects or is affected by the natural world. When Willows became the immediate first material available I started thinking about what I wanted to do and knew that I wanted to create some sort of shelter, preferably under soil protection and enclosed by weaved willow branches. Because of having to get permission from the grounds keepers I hunted out a natural concave and found one at the base of a tree with exposed roots. I thought that this would be perfect due to my weaving idea and figured that I could weave the shelter around the roots and then cover it with soil. I started right away. It was a lot more difficult then I first imagined. It was steep and difficult to keep my footing. It was also hard to transport materials back and forth and the materials were scratchy and broke easily if they weren’t fresh. I ended up getting exhausted easily and the weaving looked sloppy as branches continued to shift, break, and fall out. I used a few palm reeds to secure a few big branches. When my teacher checks on me she wonders about the validity of my project.
“Well, I hope it works.” She says not too optimistically. I’m already questioning what I’m doing, I didn’t need her remarks as well. I become frustrated with why I’m even trying to express myself through art, while at the same time trying to tell myself that even though she’s my teacher that doesn’t make her right.
I think that my parents helped to form and also silence my inner critic the most. They exposed me indirectly to a lot of beautiful art, photography or pictures they hung up – the cards they saves from people that were pretty, the calendar pages that were pretty. They criticized modern art as ridiculous and purposeless, they taught me that they were wiser and right. They taught me that I had to believe what they said or I was going to fail in the world. When I got older I began to see that they were wrong and that I could find out for myself if things were kewl or not. I felt cheated of getting to know their ideas and make my own – I felt that everything I’d based truth on was skewed and wrong. I began being very open to understand and listen to other ideas. In the art world I found that there can’t be a right and wrong definition of art. There can only be preference and popularity. That if a work of art does not fall into one of these categories that does not mean that it is not art. That freed me up even further to express myself.
The embankment crumbles as I work and I try to avoid destroying a small bulbish plant that looks as if it is about to die. Day after day I drag willow out, break them to length, weave and shove. The shelter slowly evolves. About the sixth day I dislodge moss and transplant it into the hollow of the shelter as a rug of sorts. I continue to ecru scratches and dirt stained fingers. I try not to ruin my new jeans. I don’t have any other pants. When I think the outside is done, I need dirt so I talk with my teacher. The next class, she brings some rooty clayish soil, and I cover the top and plant new grass around the edges. Then I collect the dead leaves surrounding the area and camouflage the dirt cover. My teacher comes and says I need to trim it. She wants to know if I’ve learned anything. I am tired. I’ve never done an on sight instillation before; I’ve also never tried to make a shelter out of raw natural products. She thinks its not woven well. I feel guilty about it, but I’ve worked long and hard and tried my best. She says it needs to look more man made and even an animal could do better than what I’ve done. I wanted it to look very chaotic and naturalish, but I can’t tell her that because she’ll probably think I’m trying to cover my butt. She says it needs a lot more work – but she doesn’t think its going to need enough to sustain my time between now and its due date. I am discouraged. I gather more branches and weave, but it still looks like crap. Finally I decide to switch materials. I grab some long Gavay leaves and cut it into strips which I cut in half and weave between the sticks. Now it looks “manhandled” and very clean cut. I like it. I plant flower seeds in the soil on top praying they will sprout soon. Then I step away. My legs are sore. I hope a duck will start nesting there.
My first experiments with painting in oils disappointed me. When I was young, I was told that oils held magic by the way people spoke of paintings done in that medium. They still tell me that in the art textbooks – especially the art history teachers. So when I bought the paint I expected miracles. I guess I hope for too much in life. I hoped that I’d pick up a brush and that KABAM! the painting would paint itself. Instead I found that it was like butter. That it was the brush that mattered and my own eyes and motion, not the paint. Talk about disappointing.
My first oil painting looked like a place, but not the place I was painting. I am learning that this is the life of the painter. When I show it to someone I will take the compliments and nod. I wont tell them where it was done, I’ll just let them think that I got it right. All that matters is that we fulfill our dreams. Perhaps my dreams are pressing through reality to try and find themselves.
“Loosen up,” my friends and teachers say.
Maybe that’s the key. Loosening up, finding the child’s eye, learning to fly again, just feeling the paint and believing that when we grow up the magic will happen. Pull out the fat clumsy brushes. Let the grass be purple and the houses yellow. Follow the shadow and be blue, let the grass be orange. Be true to your first instincts – paint with your whole body, dance on the canvas; because then we can live as we want and keep fending that critic off – that part of us that is grown up. Maybe the grown ups are wrong after all. Maybe we just have to close our eyes and keep dreaming like a kid.
