Painting Chef – Cheaper Than Therapy

The artistic part of my heart has been in hibernation for too long. For almost 2 years it was replaced by my job of “governing” artists. Maybe replaced isn’t the right word, rather it was DISplaced. So much of my creative energy was zapped by planning and filling out forms and applications for non-profit status and it finally hit me in the head like the proverbial ton of bricks that MY GOD… I need to PAINT. I have been more involved with photography than painting recently because it almost seems… easier. Photography is such an art and one at which I am truly a novice. But it seems like a more portable art. And it is one that, while it has tided me over like it were a bread basket I think it is time for steak. I need to paint. I have once again started to see canvases and the swirls of color every time I close my eyes. I even ordered a huge batch of fresh supplies from Jerry’s. It is time.

The only problem?

Those damn boxes. My paints and supplies are packed and hidden so far away that the thought of finding everything makes me kind of want to cry. Don’t get me wrong, the thought of taking my half of the “purple room” and setting up my own little art space full of wonderful smells and all the things that inspire me sounds like heaven. I can’t imagine a more perfect way to prepare myself to paint again. I think I just need a magic genie to come in and get all the boxes together first.

But I’m starting to hunger for creativity. The time I spending working is so much more draining than in my last work-situation. I think I need the outlet more than ever. I think it is time. I’ve gone too long. I don’t have to be in charge anymore.

Back when everyone invaded kindly traveled to our house for Thanksgiving and OH MY GOD the stress and the anxiety and pressure of keeping a house clean for more than 30 minutes at a time in a fit of massive de-cluttering, I moved my easel and my paints up to the bonus room. Not moved up there as in “I created a nice little studio separate from the kitchen where I can retreat to paint whenever I feel the urge” but moved as in “I (and by ‘I’ obviously I mean Patrick because boys are for heavy lifting) carted it all upstairs and stacked it up with precision that rivals a jigsaw puzzle (again…Patrick…engineer) under a drafting table that is used for stacking boxes from wedding presents which we received over 5 years ago but aren’t they pretty silver boxes so don’t you think we should save them”.

Which would mean that I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since before Thanksgiving.

And I call myself an artist.

How does it happen? It has taken me almost 3 full months to realize that I’ve been missing painting, that the reason I’ve been somewhat out of sorts and floundering (to borrow one of my mother’s favorite adjectives for me between 1993 and 1998), is that I’ve been lacking creativity. I have pages and pages of sketches littering the bottoms of purses and bags and the top of my dresser, I’ve THOUGHT about painting when I had a spare moment. But then it has left my mind as quickly as it appeared.

Sunday morning, my heathen husband and I were up in the bonus room doing our taxes because all the churches in Augusta, Georgia are full of the Young Republican’s Medical Professionals Convention and their trophy wives and are severely lacking in tolerance and acceptance and so our Sunday mornings are filled with things like taxes. And sex. And third cups of coffee. And I was digging through the boxes of my paints and brushes and gesso and palates and a few measuring cups (which…what?) when I realized that I DO crave painting again. I need to get that stuff back downstairs in the middle of everything, where it belongs. Because the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” is so painfully true.

I’ve had this unusually strong creative drive running through me the past month or so. And I’ve tried to feed it with writing (which is going remarkably well, by the way, did you even KNOW that you read the introduction to my book the other day?) and photography, both of which I love dearly. But nothing gives me the satisfaction of painting. Nothing else feeds my creativity, not to mention my need for a horrific mess, like the smell of paints and the familiar feel of a brush in my hand.

So when I say that this evening I think I’m going to bribe Patrick to do a little heavy lifting I will ask you to keep your mind out of the gutter. Even though I couldn’t…

We’re all friends here. We can be honest with one another, right? Because its no big secret that I kind of suck at this right now. I suddenly have all this shit that I’m trying to plan and get done and take care of and I’m all “DAMN! I just need a pedicure REALLY badly but unless I find someone who can do one while I’m running my ass all over town I am S.O.L.” So now I’m stressed, frazzled, clutter-brained, sleep-deprived, AND my feet look like they were chewed on by a small furry woodland creature.

That mental image is too hot for you to bear, no?

So I suck. I am ignoring you. I have even ignored my bitches. But am planning an EVENT! That is why I am BUSY! Look…it even has a logo designed by someone I kind of love. Isn’t it perfect and beautiful and wonderful?

Here is what I propose to you all. Go here and buy things from me. Then I shall be able to hire someone to stress and plan for me so that I may do things like meet a painting deadline that is looming painfully and scarily over my head but yet the canvas sits in my trunk. Wrapped in plastic. As in not only not finished but not even started. And little sketches flutter around my house like big ass snowflakes mocking me. And if I can’t hire someone to worry and stress and plan and return emails and answer the phone for me then at least maybe I could buy a few extra bottles of red wine and just pretend that the day has seven hundred and sixty four hours in which I may accomplish things.

Also have I mentioned that my parents and my in-laws will be here today? Yes? Okay, well they will. And I am quite certain that next week will be filled with pictures and funny stories and gumdrops and unicorns but for now? We have none of those things. Just lots of lists and post its stuffed in my purse and the overwhelming fear of what the next three days will hold. Send wine. And chocolate. And brownies because I don’t have time to make them myself. And valium. And a damn pedicure.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m the president of the local Artists’ Guild. Its something that just kind of happened and I’m sure nobody knows how, least of all me. But its a fun meeting because once a month I get to be surrounded by these people who are all vastly more talented than I am (in that you can actually recognize what they are putting on a canvas as something other than what you might find in a book illustrating communicable diseases…) but yet, for some unknown reason, all seem to like me. Or at least the do a hell of a job pretending. Maybe we’re really an Actors’ Guild and nobody is telling me. Maybe I’m the butt of a joke with these people or its like that imaginary reality show that was on a couple of years ago… Who knows.

But we meet once a month and it happens to be this evening. Which means that today is the day I spend frantically putting together an agenda of what needs to be discussed. This usually involves me stalking a few people who actually DO know what is going on via email and if I get too desperate it may even escalate into a couple of phone calls. The fun really begins once I get home from work and spend the next hour is a cold sweat panicked that its going to be plainly transparent that I have no idea what I’m doing, no clue what is going on and am just a big fat joke as an artist.

I am also learning to keep this to myself as I had a friend once who required the kind of constant encouragement and affirmation that could only be achieved by her shamelessly fishing for compliments. I don’t want to be that girl. Naturally, Patrick is exempt and I will exploit his poor judgment in marrying me and require him to stroke my pathetic ego at regular intervals. I continue to reward him with…well…nothing but my shining presence if you must know the truth. This is also one of the (probably far too many) days each month where I will leave Patrick hopelessly alone to fend for himself for dinner. I may throw a sandwich in his general direction or if my panic has gone so far as to cause me to speak in tongues while my head spins around out of control (which is FAR more likely to happen than I’m comfortable admitting) he may just go hide in the bonus room rolling his eyes at the unleashed crazy and counting the minutes until she launches herself towards the meeting and is finally out of his damn hair for a while.

Now, about that shining presence…anyone know of a mattifier that actually works? In the summer? In Augusta, GA?

Lost…

One kitchen table. One sane wife. Not necessarily in that order.

That picture really is alright if you click on it to enlarge it…its just that for some reason its all crappy when its little. I blame Brenda Walsh.

Last seen…

Back before some crazy lady took over said table and sane wife and decided she was going to get all artistic and start slinging paint around instead of doing the laundry so people could have some damn clean socks once in a while.

A patient husband can only do so much here people. He’s a truly good man. A sweet and generous man who really deserves more than a blank look and a shrug when he asks about dinner or laundry. He’s not one of those “WOMAN! Where’s my damn dinner!?” Its more of a “Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?” and “Will it bother you if I sweep in here while you’re painting?” and still he just gets the blank stare.

And THEN! THEN! He spends all this time building her displays to encourage the crazy paint slinging lady to stick around. Because he? Kind of kicks ass. And she? Is a lucky girl.

Also? She was never all that sane to begin with…

Also again? All of those paintings are for sale if anyone is interested…let me know. The great husband doesn’t know it yet but his plans for the evening include morphing into “human easel” so I can take better pictures of them.