"Ballet in the Wood" was the entry point into this subject—and the reason I turned a single drawing into a full series. It was my first real attempt at making something for myself that I knew I was going to give away.
Weird, right?
I hadn’t made any real art since my divorce. I simply hadn’t been in the right mindset, or physical space, to even attempt it. But as fate would have it, someone asked if I’d donate a piece to an auction supporting colleagues who had fallen on hard times and needed help with medical bills. I said sure. Then I went home, looked through a pretty disappointing inventory of existing work, and—to make a long story medium-length—decided to just make something new.
I found some paper, pulled a box of supplies out of the garage, threw canvas over my living room rug, taped paper to a piece of thin plywood, and stared at it for hours. I couldn’t think of a thing to draw. Even though I knew the only way to make art is to just start making it, I couldn't bring pencil to paper.
So I asked myself three things: What do I love? What do my colleagues and I have in common? What would actually be fun?
It took three days to hit me: driftwood. There are massive pieces used in the landscaping all over the place I work, and I've always loved it (I even built a lamp out of some once). Just thinking about it brought the excitement back—and then I pounced.
Literally. I jumped out of my chair, grabbed a pencil like a knife, dropped to my knees, and tore into the paper like it was all I had left in the world.
Three or four hours later, I stood up—covered in charcoal and cussing at myself for not stretching—and looked down at a sliver of redemption and hope. I could still draw. The world hadn’t ended. And I really loved where the piece was going.
The real breakthrough was realizing the art didn't belong to me. It wasn't to sell, and it wasn't to please anyone else; I only had to answer to how I felt in that moment. That is where the conversation with art truly begins: It whispers, I listen, and something else draws.
"Ballet in the Wood" was the entry point into this subject—and the reason I turned a single drawing into a full series. It was my first real attempt at making something for myself that I knew I was going to give away.
Weird, right?
I hadn’t made any real art since my divorce. I simply hadn’t been in the right mindset, or physical space, to even attempt it. But as fate would have it, someone asked if I’d donate a piece to an auction supporting colleagues who had fallen on hard times and needed help with medical bills. I said sure. Then I went home, looked through a pretty disappointing inventory of existing work, and—to make a long story medium-length—decided to just make something new.
I found some paper, pulled a box of supplies out of the garage, threw canvas over my living room rug, taped paper to a piece of thin plywood, and stared at it for hours. I couldn’t think of a thing to draw. Even though I knew the only way to make art is to just start making it, I couldn't bring pencil to paper.
So I asked myself three things: What do I love? What do my colleagues and I have in common? What would actually be fun?
It took three days to hit me: driftwood. There are massive pieces used in the landscaping all over the place I work, and I've always loved it (I even built a lamp out of some once). Just thinking about it brought the excitement back—and then I pounced.
Literally. I jumped out of my chair, grabbed a pencil like a knife, dropped to my knees, and tore into the paper like it was all I had left in the world.
Three or four hours later, I stood up—covered in charcoal and cussing at myself for not stretching—and looked down at a sliver of redemption and hope. I could still draw. The world hadn’t ended. And I really loved where the piece was going.
The real breakthrough was realizing the art didn't belong to me. It wasn't to sell, and it wasn't to please anyone else; I only had to answer to how I felt in that moment. That is where the conversation with art truly begins: It whispers, I listen, and something else draws.
