On the Verge of Creativity

They’re like ghosts that linger just outside the door that guards my conscious thought, flitting briefly into the periphery of my mental vision and then gone before I can fully turn to see them. They slip away too quickly to capture but still slowly enough to tease me with the knowledge that they were there. Shadowy ideas and images – what I could be painting if I could just see them.

I think back to my childhood. I didn’t use photos for ideas – I didn’t need “no stinkin’ photos.” I had my imagination, and it was rich and limitless. If I wanted to draw an ocean – I knew what my ocean looked like. If I wanted a horse or an entire herd – it was simply a question of what color or colors they would be. A princess, a castle, a crone, a cave. It didn’t matter – I just drew and colored or painted. And when it was done – it was good. It was right. It was what I saw in my mind.

And then I had a bad experience. I ran into a teacher who was determined to destroy my dream because – and I see this now with the vision of an adult – he was jealous of my passion. He’d lost his and mine was too painful a reminder. But I was a child during those years – only 15, 16, 17 – and taught to always respect my elders, my teachers, because they were authority and, therefore, right.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the problems escalated when I started taking commercial art from another teacher in addition to my painting class. It was no secret that there were tensions between the two teachers. In fact it was bad enough that the commercial art teacher warned me that there could be some fallout for taking his class. I smiled politely, clueless to what he was trying to say, because it was just a class and their disputes had nothing to do with me. Only it wasn’t just a class. I had failed an important loyalty test. I had crossed over to the enemy, the competition. This was a war, and I was about to become collateral damage.

So I listened to my painting instructor slowly dripping poison – “you’re too smart, you can’t be creative,” “you’ll fail, you’re never going to make it.” Over and over again, sliding into my ear and burrowing into my brain and my heart. By the third year, I began to dread my painting class. I couldn’t do anything right. No matter how hard I tried, he was never pleased with the outcome. He’d shake his head in mock sorrow, sigh, and remind me I was too smart to be creative.

Twice the department chose me to receive a scholarship to attend the Art Center College of Design for figure drawing classes. He couldn’t block it; or maybe he chose not to – I don’t know. So I spent my Saturdays in a totally different environment, feeling like an artist. They liked my work, and I could feel the excitement trying desperately to claw its way up through the slag heap of discouragement under which it was being buried. But then I returned each Monday to class where I was reminded that I was destined to fail. By the time my senior year was over, I had learned the lesson well, and I ran away from a love that had become too painful. I chose another academic subject and settled in to become something, anything other than an artist. Something that I could succeed at because I was smart – but not creative.

I was successful in my career. He was right – I was smart. Much of my career required me to come up with creative ideas that solved problems, so I did. I could see the solutions – full blown and complete in intricate detail – just as I had once seen my paintings.

Thirty-eight years later, I retired.

I started hearing voices. They came from ghosts in my soul and whispered in my heart. They beckoned me to walk past the painting supplies at the art store – a destination I had painstakingly avoided for all those years. I found myself touching the brushes with reverence, holding my breath as my fingers played across soft, supple sable. They were precious and exotic. They were foreign to me, yet I could remember that I once knew how to use them. I felt a longing to know once again.

Was it too late to try? What if I found out that he was right? I dithered, I ignored, I even cried. I was terrified. I was clinging to the dream of a dream and wasn’t certain if I wanted to risk losing even that. My son told me none too gently that he was tired of hearing me whine. Whine? I wasn’t whining. Was I whining? I thought I was wrestling with a dilemma. He added insult to injury and repeated the words I had told him so often. “If you want to do something, then just do it. If you want to take a class, sign up.” He literally stood beside me as I logged into the local community college website and started checking the available art classes. I registered. I felt triumphant and maybe a little nervous. He was pleased, and I thought I might also detect a note of relief. I must have been whining.

And so began my return to painting. The medium was different – acrylics didn’t behave in quite the same way as my beloved oil paints. But I found I remembered much more than I had expected. I was reveling in the fact that I could still paint – even if it was just a black and white study of cones and cubes, spheres and cylinders. The frustration came when my hand couldn’t keep up with my brain. I was rusty and out of practice, but I knew that was something that could be fixed.

What I couldn’t understand was why I no longer knew what my painting was supposed to look like. Everything felt stiff, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with that. Class was over for the semester and I decided to try studying with a private instructor. I got a referral from a local art supply store and made an appointment to take in my three paintings I’d just completed. I told him I needed to “loosen up.” He nodded and said he knew exactly what I was looking for. I signed up for the summer.

My first class arrived and I immediately froze. First of all, he wanted me to use my imagination for a subject. I was stumped. I found a picture to use as a guideline and made my drawing. Since it wasn’t a copy, I had some room to make decisions. But I couldn’t seem to find my voice in the painting. I found myself waiting for him to tell me exactly what to do each step of the way. At the rate I was progressing with this small canvas, it would probably be done in about 18 months. I decided to pick up the pace and try painting at home. I couldn’t, because I didn’t know what he wanted me to do. Another class, another square inch of canvas covered. And frankly, I wasn’t that wild about the way the painting was looking. He kept assuring me that he could see how it was going to look when it was complete and that I would be happy. But rather than making me feel hopeful, it was frustrating.

I took it home and propped it up near my computer. I found myself constantly detouring through the house just to look at it. What was wrong? What was it he was seeing, and why couldn’t I see it? And then I finally realized, I was trying to paint the picture he was seeing, and I didn’t have a clue what that was. And by doing that, it was no longer my painting. I grabbed my brushes and started making changes. No more anemic little dabs of light color applied to minuscule areas of canvas. I started laying on serious, intense color, filling the canvas with what I saw. I took it back to the next class, set it up and started working. He was surprised to see me painting away without the customary period of waiting for his go-ahead. He came over and was shocked to see how far along I’d taken the painting. He studied it, nodded, and smiled. “Nice. I like where you’re going with that.” I liked where I was going, too, and it had less to do with the painting and more with the fact that I realized I actually had a vision and was painting from my imagination.

Summer ended and the fall semester began. I was going to try something new that completely terrified me. Watercolor. I’d tried it once, years before without benefit of instruction, and it was a horrifying mess. But the teacher I’d had the semester before also taught watercolor and she made a compelling argument for giving it another try. Why not – what did I have to lose?

And the answer to that question, as I soon discovered, was what little bit of self-confidence I had achieved over the summer. The medium was difficult and it did not come as naturally to me as it did to some of the other students. The class was composed of varying levels of proficiency. There were those who were brand new and those who had been painting with watercolor for decades. The pros made it look so easy and I soon came to realize that there are natural watercolorists, and then there are those of us who struggle. I persevered and produced adequate results, but they were achieved only through massive sweat and toil. But I was pleased and decided to take another semester.

I had set aside my acrylic painting for the time being. I suspected that the dueling techniques would probably be too confusing. I was right – but I longed for the control over the paint that I had with acrylics. I kept battling the watercolor and was surprised when the pieces I submitted to the student art show were accepted for display. I was stunned when one of them actually won an award. Vindication! I wasn’t so silly as to think that my work was the best – but apparently it had appealed to someone, and that, after all, was the whole point.

That next summer I spent painting with the acrylics and ignored the watercolor. I figured I deserved time off for good behavior. When the fall semester came back around, I enrolled again for another round of watercolor. But in a giant leap of confidence, I now was painting with acrylics at home, certain that I could switch back and forth and handle both.

But I was still struggling with the feeling that something was missing. It wasn’t necessarily the “loosen up” thing that I’d labeled it earlier, and I couldn’t quite put my paint brush on it. Then I read a quote that said art is not about WHAT you see, but rather about what YOU see. Funny how sometimes something so simple is so difficult to articulate. But there it was. And it was that simple.

As a child, I’d painted what I saw, and I’d done it without apology or excuse. That was the freedom I’d set aside at some point. Undoubtedly, part of it had to do with the experience that had driven me away from art in the first place. But I have never considered myself a victim, and I wasn’t about to start now. I knew there was an answer, I just had to look for it.

Our high school was holding a multi-year reunion. While I was not planning on attending, I had been enjoying going to the website and reading about what folks were doing with their lives. Many of the names were only vaguely familiar at this stage. In looking through them, I saw one that I recognized. We hadn’t traveled in the same circle. He’d been part of the popular, jock crowd who’d gone on to an acting career. I hadn’t seen him in anything for years, and I decided to see what he’d been up to. Imagine my shock to discover that he was a nationally known painter. He’d gone on to major in commercial art – obviously having experienced the more nurturing art instructor of the two at our high school. I visited his website to see what he was doing – and it was gorgeous work. He’d left acting 20 years before and was devoting himself to what he loved. I poured over his paintings and realized that while they were beautifully executed, what made them stunning was the emotion that flew out of the canvas.

I’ll admit, my first reaction was jealousy. Why had he gotten to live his dream? I started reading the rest of his website. Going through the material that he’d written about his decision to change styles of art and move into impressionism, I found the passage about painting what you see. It was a quote from another artist, he said, that had made a difference to his own artwork. He went on to add that he believed everyone is creative – that we’re created to be creative. And he threw down a challenge. He said that if someone says they’re not creative – it’s because they’re not taking the time to create.

If it’s possible to be slapped up side the head by reading something, that’s what happened. My jealousy dissolved and was replaced by gratitude. I went back over his work and could see his heart painted all over the canvases. Gratitude was joined by excitement.

I decided to try examining this discovery in the way that works best for me. I started writing and working my way through the process that has been going on. Along the way I realized things I’d never seen before. I made connections and new discoveries about the mistakes of the past. And I’d like to think that I gave them a decent and FINAL burial.

I went back and looked at my high school yearbook. Scribbled by his picture, my teacher had written, “My great dreams were never realized. Maybe yours will be.” He’d signed it and then added something nice about my leadership in art club, probably because he realized what he’d written was all about himself. I sat and looked at that inscription, and I realized that it screamed pain and frustration and self-absorption. How incredibly sad.

And I forgave him.

His problems are not mine. His lack of sight is not mine. His lost passion is not mine.

My passion is alive and starting to burn brightly. I am once again a painter. I may have much to learn insofar as technique, but I can now bring a wealth of life experience that I will mix into my paints and let flow onto my canvases. I am so excited to see what pictures are waiting to come. Now, I just need to tell the images that were lurking and hiding to wait their turn. They’re rushing at me, demanding to be recorded. They’re crying, “Look at me!”

And I can see them.

A Quiet Radical

One of the most meaningful lessons I ever learned in college came out of a required class that had nothing to do with my major and everything, as it turned out, to do with the way I have lived my life.

As a freshman at Chapman in the fall of 1970, I took an entry-level class in philosophy that probably would have curled my mother’s toes if she’d realized what a radical there was teaching it. My parents were both conservative – my mother falling on the “ultra” part of the spectrum. In our family, she was the final arbiter of what was acceptable and what wasn’t insofar as education, behavior, and ideas went. That’s not to say that my dad didn’t have opinions. He did. He just didn’t express them as often and was more easy-going about things than my mom. And if he didn’t have a strong opinion one way or the other, then my mom’s word became law. I was happy enough most of the time to float along, as most children do, accepting the world as presented through my mother’s eyes.

So there I was in a class that was required, facing a professor who was old enough to be my grandfather, and learning that this rather benign, gentle soul had been a conscientious objector in WWII. Oh, no! My first reaction was horror. He must be a Communist – and those of us raised in the 60s who had participated in the duck-and-cover drills through our years in grade school knew what that meant – well at least I knew it was something evil and to be avoided. And by the standards in my house, by everything I had had drilled into me, there was no question but that I should be standing up, marching smartly out of the classroom, and immediately calling my mother so that she could demand my reassignment. (And yes, she would have expected to be the one to handle this – not me.)

But a strange thing happened – and it became my first act of rebellion as a college student. I sat still and I listened.

And as Dr. Paul Delp spoke and explained why he’d made the decisions he did, I found my horror turning to fascination. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t a Communist. He didn’t hate his country – he just refused to carry a gun and shoot someone. He was, quite simply and sincerely, a pacifist. And he had made that stand in an age where such a declaration was not popular. So after facing the onslaught of disapproval and public ridicule, he had submitted to the necessary inquiries, including a formal meeting with a representative of the President of the United States when his initial request was denied, and ultimately was granted formal CO status.

I returned home that evening to my own inquisition as to the professors I had and what they would be teaching, instinctively protecting my right to take this class by glossing over the first day’s lecture and simply saying that the professor seemed nice enough and that we would be reading about a lot of the different philosophers to get a brief idea of what they had each said. My mother seemed pleased that no one particular philosophy was going to be taught to the exclusion of others (i.e., I wouldn’t be taught anything inappropriate that didn’t match with our belief systems), and that was the end of the discussion. Thereafter, I never really mentioned the class.

I must stop at this point and defend my mother. She was a good mother who loved her family ferociously. But as I stand on the other side of some years of experience and perspective, I can see that her own demons and flaws shaped her view of life – just as it does for us all. But the bottom line in all of this was that my mother loved me and she sincerely believed that her actions were always in my best interests. That said, I do not believe that she would have been happy with this class.

To be honest, I don’t really remember much if any of what I learned in that semester insofar as the philosophers go – and that is no reflection on Professor Delp’s teaching. At this stage in life, the best I can claim is to recognize some names that I might not otherwise have known. But what I do remember, and use to this day, is an exercise he gave us every week—the “thought paper.”

We were required to explore, in writing, something each week. Something we believed or had questions about, something that was troubling us. The only rule was that it was not to be a rehash of what we were reading – unless there was a point that was niggling away at us. He liked the exercise of writing it down because it forced us to face the issue and bring it to some conclusion. There wasn’t an assigned topic, and I have to admit that at first that was a bit disconcerting to the structured individual in me. But being the good and faithful student I was, I went ahead and tackled the assignment with my usual determination to do exactly what we were being told to do. I jumped in with both feet and confronted the question of the war. Vietnam was raging at the time and my parents were fervent hawks. And in my house, disagreement with their views was enough to cause near apoplectic fits.

A funny thing happened during that paper – it became less about the war and more about my inability to raise these questions at home. For the first time, I admitted that I might not always agree with my parents and that revelation in turn raised a lot of questions about how that made me feel. There was no question as to how writing that paper made me feel – it felt like treason, and I prayed my parents never saw it. But I turned it in.

The paper came back and, frankly, I don’t remember if there was a grade or not. What I do remember is that he wrote that it took courage to question what we’d been taught and that for a belief to be our own, we had to think it through and find our own answers. Sometimes we would end up agreeing and sometimes we wouldn’t—and either way was fine—just so long as whatever we were clinging to was truly our own and that we were prepared to defend our views based on actual belief.

I have used this approach to problem-solving ever since. The big issues, the issues that are painful and/or difficult – those aren’t fun to tackle. They’re uncomfortable and often if we simply try to “think” about them, our minds become co-conspirators in avoidance, skittering away to other topics that are either more fun or at least less difficult. That’s normal. But the very process of committing them to paper allows me to take control of my thoughts. By forcing myself to write my questions down, I discover that the real question or reason for concern is often not what I thought it was at first blush. It helps me dig deeper to see what it is that’s actually bothering me. And once I’ve gotten to that point, once I have faced and actually articulated whatever it is that needs to be dealt with, I have a starting point because I finally know what the real issue is. And if the answer is that there is no answer, then it’s easier to let it go because I know that I’ve honestly thought it through.

I think, somehow, that Professor Delp would not mind my inability to discuss the philosophical differences between Kant and Nietzsche. I believe he would be delighted to know that more than any other one thing I learned in college, I have used the thought paper in my life. I have taught my son to use this technique and have shared it over the years with friends and co-workers facing dilemmas. I feel like I owe such a debt of gratitude to this quiet radical – this lovely, gentle, brilliant man who passed through my life for a few brief months so many years ago leaving an indelible impression and invaluable tool for me to carry forward.

The Poem In Our Soul

There is within each one of us
a piece of poetry.
For some it's words, for others song,
but look for it—you'll see.

For each of us there is a rhythm
gently keeping time,
that bends and shapes our views of life
and touches us with rhyme.

The poems are unique and new
and ageless in their forms—
a searching, haunting melody,
a flood of words like storms.

Within the jangled, jumbled lives
we lead from day to day,
we lose our simple poet selves,
and stumble on our way.

We must learn to take the time
to listen and to know—
the one truth we must follow is
the poem in our soul.