Pieces

A woman I have not met face to face, but with whom I've maintained a relationship for quite some time now and who i am honored to call my friend as recently suffered a tremendously devastating tragedy. I can't divulge the details, mostly out of respect for her privacy but also because I find it hard to even type about it without breaking down into a puddle of tears. I've cried much for her and her family this past week. I've cried much for all the families who have suffered in a similar manner.

I don't talk much about my art. My art mostly exists in a past I would rather forget. The forgetting hasn't worked out very well. In the spring of 1979 after a year and a half of classes, I submitted an application and portfolio to the art department chairs of the liberal arts college I attended. The purpose: to declare drawing, painting, sculpture or textiles as a major area of concentration. After flip flopping between painting, drawing and sculpture, I settled on painting. My application and portfolio was deemed worthy, but for a multitude of reasons, I was unable to return to school in the fall of 1979. I haven't forgotten the worst parts of my past and though much of the art from that time was sold (before I could take pictures) or destroyed, some of the art from then lives with me today.

Though relegated to the background, a bit player in the theatre of my life since 1979, art has continued to have a voice. Beyond my healthy appreciation for the art of others, there have been a helping hand with kids' artistic projects, illustrations for a church cookbook, scant artful touches into various aspects of life and living over the years and the execution of some rough doodles for my personal enjoyment and release.

A couple of years ago I talked about getting "out" more. Part of that getting out was to re-acquaint myself with art and the art all around me. I've done some, not as much as I would have hoped, but some. I'm still, however, on the getting out bent and art is definitely a part of the journey.

I am reluctant to talk about my art. I am as reluctant to share my art. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I'm muddle-minded about what my art says to (or about) me, what it says to everybody. Perhaps it is some kind of fear.

More and more, I find that part of my process for dealing with tremendously devastating events like the one my friend just suffered, involves art. My doodles, rough as they are, provide a soft place for my tears to land, a place that could turn the ugliness of tragedy into something else a little less ugly.

Dear OTC, you are on my mind, in my heart, and the tip of my marker.