PERSONAL SHRINES AND WHERE THEY CAN LEAD

"Rosalia"
foam core, rice paper, stamps and ephemera
7" x 5" x 2"

I never knew my maternal grandmother. I wish I had. She died well before I was born. I wish I'd have asked questions about her while there were still people in my life who could have answered them. How is it that she had the courage to leave pre-war Poland by herself when she wasn't quite 21? How did she get the money? Family lore says that she saved her egg money, but even though she went by steerage, she would have had to start saving when she was a little girl. How did she get from the south of Krakow to Poland's northern ocean fronted border? I was too young and too full of myself to ask these and myriad other questions I have about this gutsy, prescient young woman.

Grandma was on my mind when I found Carol Owens' Crafting Personal Shrines at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts' shop. After a couple of aborted trials, I constructed this little memorial to my mom's mother. It's not nearly as elegant as the samples in the book but I'm not displeased with my first effort. I learned a lot...about Poland during the pre-WWI years; about Polish farms and the probable life style for young girls married off to farmers three times their age; about what it was like to travel alone in steerage across a stormy Atlantic ocean. What I didn't expect to learn is that I share a number of traits with her: a love of making things, a curiosity about the unknown, and a determination to try something scary despite others' cautionary warnings. So maybe what I really learned is that I know her better than I thought.

AVOIDANCE AND THE CREATIVE PROCESS

Into the Woods
5" x 5"
acrylic on canvas
$125 framed

I wrote on October 2 about artist collaborations and the first of a monthly meeting with travel and food writer and old friend Donna Tabbert Long. That first meeting set a fire under my (fill in the blank). I hung one show and submitted a proposal for another. I finished six small acrylics. I sketched a thumbnail for a graphite drawing of milkweed pods. I’m close to completion of two spirit houses. (More on these later...maybe.) My gallery is ready for this weekend’s big art crawl. What I didn’t complete was my assignment: to write about my creative process.

The backstory: As Donna and I talked, it became clear that our creative processes needed more structure. Past experience told us that committing to 25 pages a day (Donna) or a painting a week (me) would get us nowhere. Nope...we needed something more tangible, more concrete. Donna’s assignment for me: To write about my painting process.

And thereby lies the irony. I discovered that I get a lot done when I’m avoiding the one thing I’m supposed to do. So, while I completed more work in a month than I usually accomplish in half a year, I avoided the “gotta do” -- write about my creative process in order to understand it better. Oh. I just did that, didn’t I? Clever sneaky Donna! I think I owe her a cappuccino.

TUESDAY MORNING AT SILVERWOOD

In Full Bloom
by Judy Westergard
all rights reserved
oil on linen; birch panel
available at JudyWestergard.com

The patio at Silverwood Park is a busy place this morning. Over in the corner a college professor perches at the edge of her chair. Papers, notebooks, laptop clutter her table as she plans upcoming lectures. Four of Silverwood Park's staff sit nearby. They're working out the details for Silverwood's upcoming art programs. Behind me two professional violinists trade riffs and ideas while they polish their repertoire of Appalachian reels. The sounds of children's giggles and a fresh breeze off the lake mingle with the aroma of my cappuccino. Some people might think of this as sensory overload. For me it's pure inspiration. The sight of the planners. the sounds of the kids, the feel of the breeze and the seductive smell of caffeine trigger both my imagination and an irresistible desire to get back to my studio and paint. The result is the image above. I hope you like it.

IN THE STUDIO

Prairie Reverie
mixed media
7" x 5"
copyright Judy (Judith) Westergard
all rights reserved

Ideas swirl, eddy, billow.
They surge. They seethe
in and out of
the closets,
the drawers,
the shelves
of my mind.
My imagination plays with me.
Could I? Can I?
I move to my studio,
surrounded by paper and canvas,
palette and easel, brushes and paints.
Burnt umber.
Wild violet.
Alizaron crimson and cerulean blue.
Could I? Can I?
Will I?

ARTISTS' BOOKS

Do you, like me, come up with ideas that you want to try but that never go anywhere? I came across this odd little sketch while I was skimming through old sketchbooks, looking for ideas. I recall clearly why I did it: I was and still am captivated by artist books. In fact, I have more than a few publications with photographs of artist books.* I have at least half a dozen of ideas for artist books that I really want to plunge into. I love the potential for a visual narrative that hints at but never resolves the question of who we are. I still want to tackle an artist's book of my own. Oddly, this little orphaned sketch put an end to my explorations. I wonder why.

*Two of my favorite:
500 Handmade Books; Lark Books, A Division of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., NY/London, 2008

Book + Art: Handcrafting Artists' Books, by Dorothy Simpson Krause; North Light Books, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2009.

MORE THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CREATIVE PROCESS

Click on image to go to my website

My husband commented recently, with a smile on his face, that I’d probably implode if I weren’t making something. Bread, a sweater, a painting...he’s right. If I don’t have at least two projects in process, I sink into the Slough of Despond.

This got me thinking about creativity. If you're like me, you know a lot of people whom you'd describe as creative. No doubt you’re a creative, too. Into the mix I include painters and musicians, weavers and knitters, woodcarvers and cooks, bloggers, thinkers...the scope is as deep as it is long.

There's been lots of research about why we feel the need to create, much of it related to our ever-increasing technologically oriented society. But my ponderings here have more to do with what creatives do with their creations.

Imagine a spectrum of creative people. At one end are what I call the quiet, introspective types. Take Linda, for example. She writes...a lot and quite well. She's observant, perceptive, an excellent listener. She has a talent for dialogue that captures a personality with spot-on accuracy. But publish? Produce? No..."I do this only for my own enjoyment," she says. And I believe her.

Mary's cityscapes in graphite are among the best I've seen. Architectural accuracy is there, but so is a sense of how she feels about the places she draws. But sell? Display? Mary's drawings stay in her studio. "I do it because it makes me happy.”

Move along my imaginary spectrum and you'll find people like me. I think of us as "noisier" with our studios and galleries open to the public. We sell but certainly not enough to make a living. So why do we do it? Melinda Kordich's answer speaks for me and a whole lot of others: "I feel wonderful when someone looks at a painting and says, 'That's my grandmother. I can smell her talcum powder and feel her hugs. Thank you for bringing back that memory." I get it. The emotional high makes it all worthwhile.

Finally there are the professionals, those whose work ethic, dedication, and (dare I say it?) talent leave me breathless. Here are three you might want to check out. I've never met them. I wish I could.

Myrna Wacknov is a California artist, teacher, blogger. Her collages, watercolor figure work and portraits speak of someone who loves people, color, and experimentation. Her blogs, "Drawn from Limb to Limb" and "Creativity Journal" are exciting inspirations. Her unique artistic voice is exhilarating and compelling.

Marlene Burns is an Arizona artist who interprets her Jewish heritage on canvas. Her work is lyrical and engaging. Her palette is strong and emotional. I want to be Marlene when I grow up.

Karin Kuhlmann takes digital fractals into a whole new realm of art. I've seen lots of fractal work. Yawn. It’s only Karin's work that creates a visceral reaction in me and that makes my heart beat faster. Luscious colors, seductive rhythms...like Wacknov, her work is better viewed than described. I'd like to be Karin when I grow up but there's no way I could master her computer skills.

And what about you? Are you reading this while you're planning tomorrow’s dinner? Are you in the middle of knitting a sweater or carving a birdhouse? Did you try to figure out a more efficient way to pick up the kids from school? Welcome to the spectrum, Fellow Creative! Regardless of where on my spectrum we land, I believe that what we all share is a desire to solve problems. Isn't if fun when it works?

Three others worth your time:
Kathleen Daughan: Maine seascapes
Darrell Hagan: Surrealism and erotica
Karen Kiefer: Narrative Portraiture (and a website that's just plain fun)

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR Day 59: Abandoning Control

"Fortress"
Mixed Media Collage
by Judy Westergard
Giclee reprints available through
FineArtAmerica.com
(click on image)

Surprisingly, I’ve not been second-guessing my decision to go with the “watchful waiting” option that my neurosurgeon had given me. After all, I can change my mind and opt for radiation, should I decide that that’s the better choice. But radiation, which comes with its own set of alarming, potential side effects, can’t be reversed. So yes, I’m content to watch and wait. Nonetheless, this watching and waiting stuff does have its downside which for me is not having closed the door, the result of which is the occasional anxiety attack. Never before have I been so aware of my control freak tendencies. So I’m trying something new: total abandon at my easel. I’ve been playing with the messiest stuff I could think of: mixed media collage. And I have to admit, I finally feel quite relaxed! I can’t control this form of painting any more than I can control my future, and yet I like this form of art as much as I like the total exactitude of replicating a leaf. I think I’ve finally learned something: Life doesn’t have to be predictable in order to find its joys.

A RARE COPY OF ANOTHER'S COLUMN (reprinted with permission)

"Serenity"
by Judy Westergard
pastel on paper
customizable giclees available through
FineArtAmerica.com

"Is your life a spinning top?

Do you find yourself overwhelmed with information?
Are there just too many choices and options?"

These are the words that opened a column by Cinda Columb in the Winter '10 issue of "Expressing TOSCA" magazine (page 58; reprinted with permission). Her questions grabbed me like Velcro® grabs a wool scarf. If like me, you relate to this particular challenge, you might be interested in what Columb has to say:
"I feel snowed under when I open my email inbox and find over 800 unopened messages. You see, I'm a big of an information junkie; I sign up for way too many newsletters thinking, 'This will give me the secret to increased sales, solve problem A, or whatever the pitch may be.' When life starts to feel like a spinning top, my goal is to keep it as upright as possible, all the while spinning without toppling over. Does that sound like your goal as well? I love to help people find ways to simplify their life so that decision-making becomes easier and choices become clearer. There are two quick and simple exercises I recommend to my clients to achieve this. The first step...is discovering what you are good at, those things you do naturally and effortlessly. One easy way to recognize yours is by buying the book, StrengthsFinder 2.0 by Tom Rath. The purchase of this book offers an online assessment, which after completing tells you your top five talent themes. A question I ask my clients is, 'What are your core values?' The following link offers a values card sort exercise that offers a number of value words or phrases for you to distinguish the five core values that guide your life: http://oca.cce.umn.edu/prototypes/cardsort/values. When I completed this exercise, I recognized a theme that is part of the motivating fulcrum that keeps my top spinning smoothly. Remember at the beginning I mentioned signing up for too many online offerings? Well, one of my values is pursuing new truths and understandings. Ah ha, that makes sense. My other values revolve around working with and helping others. I enjoy being in a position to help others recognize self-limiting attitudes and to make changes that increase the quality of their lives. When I incorporate these values into business, volunteer opportunities and life in general, I am happier. These values validate the education and career choices I have made that bring me to this time in life: I coach individuals and teams in the business of life in order to live successfully ever after! How are your values and choices aligning?"

Cinda Columb, MA, is the owner of the coaching business
“Successfully Ever After.” Cinda has a Master of Arts and her
coaching certification from Adler Graduate School. She works
with individuals and teams who want to maximize their strengths
to increase harmony and productivity. She facilitates inter-active
workshops and is a motivating speaker. Cinda can be reached at
763-449-0127 or cindacolumb@comcast.net.

THAT OL' INTERNAL EDITOR

A Question of Control
by Judy Westergard
oil on canvas
all rights reserved

I’m curious. Do you work with an internal editor? I ask because it’s a concept I’ve been aware of and fascinated by for a long time. For instance, during my years as journalism advisor for Coon Rapids High School’s newspaper, my students and I often held discussions about the extent to which they were self-editing. One such discussion I recall moderating was between the editor-in-chief and the music critic who intentionally pulled back a scathing review of a rock concert he believed was considerably less than the $125 ticket warranted. The reason? He feared the put-downs from his peers that his comments would provoke. Like the kids I, too, find myself aware of internal editors. The strongest one has the most critical voice: “You don’t know what you’re doing. That stinks. What right have you got to put that out for public viewing?” I can usually work through this one by sternly saying to it, “Shut up now!” But there’s a scarier voice that’s harder to silence. That's the voice that tells me I should paint only work that will sell. This would make sense except that when I heed this voice, the work that evolves is almost always trite and contrived. What works for me...the only time that editor is silent...is when I’m learning something new. And because that editor is silent, I let myself go. The result is almost always good -- maybe not technically perfect, but fresh and alive. “Oh!” someone says; “that’s great! You need to do more like that! They’ll sell for sure!” And of course, that’s when that nagging voice of the sales editor kicks in again. Now, I’ve read enough pop psychology to know the sources of these imaginary admonitions, but that knowledge isn’t enough to silence them. So I repeat my question: Whether you paint, write, cook, knit, carve...if you, like me, have an internal editor that gets in your way, how do you handle it? I’d love to hear from you.

HOWEVER DID THEY PAINT THAT FOOD?

Four Cherries
watercolor on paper
by Judy Westergard

I should be cleaning my studio but that always involves reshelving art books. Cleaning's boring. Reading's fun. So I park my Hoover in one corner and my keister in another and surround myself with a couple of piles of books that beg me to once again thumb through them. I pick up a collection of paintings by the Old Masters, many of them Dutch. All that food! Succulent fish, colorful fruits, glistening glassware...those gorgeous still lifes set my mind to reeling. How, I wonder in awe, did those guys steel themselves against eating their specimens?
BTW (as the texters say), I've got a new web site. You can get there by clicking on the cherries. If you get a chance I'd appreciate any feedback you'd like to send my way. Too slow to load? Confusing? Of course, if you'd just like to tell me how great it looks, that'd be good, too. Thanks!

GLUE, GLITTER AND TIN SNIPS

Excitement built in me all day long as I watched the clock in my fifth grade classroom tick...tick...tick toward that magical moment when the bell sounded the end of the school day. Normally I loved school, but two days a week I couldn’t wait to be released so I could head for the after-school activities at the Northeast Neighborhood House. We called it the Nut House, a name I never understood until, as an adult, I learned that this Minneapolis settlement house was so named by the local residents who, during the Depression, thought anyone who’d give away food, health information, etc. must be nuts.
By the ’50’s, my girl friends and I saw it as nothing more than a great place to take tap dancing lessons and act in plays. My favorite was the arts and crafts classes. I looked with excited anticipation to see what each new session would offer. I remember with a warm fondness the hours spent making Christmas bells out of the tops of tin cans: cut four equidistant slits toward the center of the lid of a tin can. Do not let the slits to meet. Pound a nail through the center of the the lid, thus leaving a hole. Open a paper clip and slip it through the hole, leaving one end of the paper clip as a hook. Attach the other end of the paper clip to the bell. Bend the four sections of the tin lid downward. Attach a little red bow on the top of the paper clip and a jingle bell on its opposite end. Apply a little glue and a lot of glitter and there you have it...a sweet little ornament.
No one worried about kids using tin snips or manipulating sharp-edged tin can lids. Cuts? Blood? Iodine and Bandaids? Probably, but I don’t recall that. All I remember is the elation I felt when I brought these stunning (to my eye) creations home.
Now I’m in my mid-60’s and while I still love making things, I hadn’t had the opportunity to revisit that eager anticipation I knew back in the “Nut House” days until this fall when Three Rivers Park District (previously Hennepin County Parks) opened Silverwood Park in the northeast area of Minneapolis. It’s a stunning place: 32 acres of oak and maple that wrap around the northern side of Silver Lake. A small cafe serves wraps, ice cream, and the best fresh brewed coffee in town...all organic. But the best part is that it offers some wonderful art workshops, and not just for kids! Pottery, book making with handmade papers, relief printing...and my current find: Intro to Botanical Painting. Under the skilled guidance of Marilyn Garber, recent president of the American Society of Botanical Artists, I’ve discovered a discipline I never thought I’d fall in love with. I signed up for this because I figured that if you want to improve as a jazz pianist, you’re well advised to study classical piano. This kind of discipline and exactitude, along with color analysis, was just what I needed. But what I’m finding is the intense pleasure in a zen-like, focused experience. Just me, the gorgeous colors of nature, and my paint brush.
A few brush strokes and I’m a fifth grader again, happily creating art at the Nut House.

PAINTING FOR THE TRULY TERRIFIED

Green Pepper Three Views
watercolor
shown in one of 125 frame options
available on linethrough
Fine Art America

I took my first art class about 12 years ago through the University of Minnesota's most excellent Split Rock Arts Program. I thought I wanted a writing workshop. But I had just completed an intense six weeks of teaching writing to high school students and had finally finished reading and grading their papers. As I looked over the Split Rock course offerings, I knew I wasn't ready for more writing, even if it would be me as the student. Then I saw it: "Drawing for the Truly Terrified." Wow. If that didn't define me, nothing did! Long story short...I came back from a magical week at Cloquet, Minnesota, told my husband I "just want to run into that little art store in St. Paul for a few supplies," and emerged an hour later with easel, paints, and ideas popping out of my pores. Fast forward to November '09. Ready for another challenge and still terrified at starting something new (will I ever grow past this?), I dared myself to enroll in Marilyn Garber's "Intro to Botanical Painting" class at Silverwood Park (one of the magnificent Three Rivers Parks). My theory was that if one wants to become a really good jazz player, one would be wise to study classical music. Botanical watercolors, to my way of thinking, would be analogous to classical piano. But a watercolorist? of fruits, vegetables, and leaves? No way. I was adamantly certain that never would I want to delve into this area of art. HAH! Garber, a knowledgeable teacher and a gifted artist, had me in her thrall from the get-go. Will I go back to my oils? You bet. But not for a while.

Maple Leaf

watercolor
shown framed
available on line through
Fine Art America

A TRUE STORY, NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH

A Question of Control
oil on canvas
30" x 24"

Last night I very carefully applied a final glaze to a painting I'd been working on for the past six months. The challenge with the glaze was to apply it without bubbles, streaks, or uneven brush marks. After 90 minutes I was finally satisfied. This morning I went to my basement studio ("basement" being the operative word here) to see how it looked. In the upper left hand corner...a corner which is primarily negative space and therefore holds nothing in which to hide its many legs and still squirmy body--was a centipede. He'd already left his miniscule feet embedded across three inches of Galkyd high-gloss medium, at which point he must have become so stuck that his legs (still attached to his body) were still working to free himself. My dilemma: Do I remove his still-writhing (and therefore live) body while the medium is still malleable? Or should I try to extricate his dead carcass from a dry and hard finish? I figured the latter decision would never work; by the time the glaze was glass-hard, the bugger would be embedded like a scarab in amber. Armed with a needle nose pliers, I plucked...and plucked...and plucked at him, eventually getting to his torso. Who knew that a centipede's torso could hold so much gooky stuff? The gut-wrenching job is finally done. I think I'll be able to smooth over the few mini-lumps that were left in the almost-pristine glaze. But here's my question: If anyone does a high-tech check in 500 years (a la the DaVinci piece with the finger print), will they be able to discern, based on entomological studies that this was, indeed, an original Westergard?

IN THE DOLL'S HOUSE

"In the Doll's House"
oil on archival paper
12" x 8"

Stories occur to me as I paint. Usually they're from my memories of growing up in northeast Minneapolis. I lived a fantasy life...not the kind that's ideal, but rather the sort that comes from reading and the wish that my dull little adolescent life were more like that of the heroines I found in Jane Eyre, Sue Barton Student Nurse, and Gone with the Wind. This is part of a children's story that came to me as I worked on "In the Doll's House." The rest isn't ready for sharing yet; maybe it never will be. Still....I keep thinking that the story is in that box somewhere, hidden with the costume.
"She reached into the old box hoping, wishing, to find just the right costume that would help her pretend to be someone else, just this once, just for this magical night."

DITHERING, WHINING, AND MOVING ON

"Doubt"
by Judy Westergard
ink on textured paper

When it comes to creativity, I’m not the first person to “hit the wall,” nor am I the first person to ponder the possible causes of and cures for these black holes of non-productivity. Nonetheless, here I go.
It was a beautiful early spring day when Barb and I shared a sunny table at a local Caribou. We talked about our kids...now grown; our marriages...now well seasoned; our losses...still being mourned. But mostly, we talked about what we want to be when we grow up and, more importantly, why we haven’t yet found it. (Bear in mind that each of us is well into our empty-nest years. Apparently aging does not come with a vacillation warranty.) Barb is a trained classical artist and a gifted, successful illustrator of children’s books. When it comes to art clients, I’m at the opposite end of that curve. Yet both of us feel like we’re at a watershed. Something needs to change...but what? And how do we get there? Yes, we’ve both done The Artist’s Way. We’ve attended numerous workshops and we’ve each read hundreds of pages about the creative process. But the bottom line is...we’re not content. We each want to turn some kind of creative corner, but neither of us knows where that corner is or even how to look for it. After four hours we still had no answers, but we did have some questions that we’ve been playing around with. For example: What blocks us? Answer: The need to produce. Where does that need come from? A sense that unless we’re selling, publishing, etc., what we do has no value. And from where does THAT come? Well, for me, it’s rooted in a casual statement that a friend made 35 years ago when I was selling my weavings: “How much an hour do you make?" (The answer would make a financial adviser shudder.)
Barb and I agreed that the challenge for each of us is to fight society’s lessons that unless we’re selling our work, our work has no value. We know that’s not true. But boy-howdy, it sure is hard to turn an acquired knowledge into an applied belief.

ON INSPIRATION, INTIMIDATION, AND DETERMINATION

"Contemplation"
by Judy Westergard
pastel on suede paper
available as giclee from
Fine Art America

My husband and I returned a couple of days ago from a two-week road trip to New Mexico. Along the way we realized our 3500 mile drive would become our own personal American Icon trip. South Dakota’s Wall Drug, Corn Palace, and Mt. Rushmore saw us checking off three “gotta see” stops that, as kids, our respective parents didn’t have the money, patience, or air-conditioned cars that would have allowed them to tolerate even a Minneapolis to Mitchell drive. With a nod to those good folks, we motored on. Carson National Forest shared its buffalo, wild turkeys, and wild burros; we saw more wild life in one hour’s drive than we’d seen in the past 40 years. Following the mountain road into Taos on a gray, drizzly day was breathtaking. I apologize for that cliche, but there’s really no other word that best describes the glitter of lime-green aspens against rain-darkened firs and deep sienna rock faces. But as much as I enjoyed those icons, it was the art and the artists in Taos and Santa Fe that captured my imagination. Weavers, potters, sculptors, oil painters, water colorists...inspiration and excitement and eagerness to wet my brush dominated my thoughts. Now I’m home. The washer and dryer are finally quiet. My camera has finished regurgitating 150+ photos into the computer. The Oaxacan hand-woven rug is hung on the wall. And I’m ready to paint. But I can’t. All that inspiration and excitement that captured my imagination only a few days ago have turned on me; all I feel now is intimidation. Even on my very best days, could I hope to come close to the quality of the work I saw? Do doctors and lawyers feel this way, too? Do politicians and clergymen look in awe over their colleagues’ abilities to solve problems judiciously and elegantly? When I’m not feeling sorry for myself, my guess is yes; they probably do. This sense of diffidence is part of the human condition and, since I’m human, I guess the only way to conquer it is to get off the computer, go to my studio, and wet that damned brush.

CARNEGIE LIBRARIES, NEW BRUSHES, AND JOURNEYS

The Hacienda
by Judy Westergard
water color
available as a print at FineArtAmerica.com
I invested today in a couple of expensive water color brushes. Very expensive water color brushes. I do not recall ever having spent this much on brushes. And now I'm scared to use them. Investment like this requires, maybe even demands commitment, and I don't know if I'm ready for what that means. After all, the potential for mediocrity always looms. (Never has what I've attempted lived up to my vision, whether it was a new recipe, an original design for a hand-knit sweater, or my attempt at the perfect summer.)
But as I write this I'm thinking about the Carnegie library building that's near my favorite art supply store and I'm taken back to that first day of summer vacation in 1956 when Karen and I looked gleefully at each other with the sudden awareness that yes, we had indeed read each and every one of the three shelves of what was yet to be termed "young adult literature" at our neighborhood's Carnegie library. This achievement mattered because it meant that we had finally earned access to the second floor and what we called "the grown-up books." With our 11-year-old shyness, we approached the children's librarian and told her that we'd achieved the goal. Did she really drill us to confirm that yes, we had indeed read every Dr. Seuss, Lewis Carroll and C. S. Lewis on those shelves? My memory bank has a distinct image of a kindly smile on a woman with tightly permed salt-and-pepper waves asking us questions about this, that, and the other book. But like many of my childhood memories, this one is nothing more than the creation of my fears of not living up to expectations. The next slide in this memory bank, though, is real: Karen and I walked through the door that led to an ominously dark and steep flight of stairs and into the blindingly bright sunlight of the second floor. There, on his raised dais, sits Mr. Name Escapes Me, the Head Librarian. His face is in shadow, the sun that shines through the 20-foot arched window behind him illuminates his head as with a halo. He holds all the power of Oz's wizard as he asks, "And just what do you girls want?" What I wanted was to look in the huge dictionary for the meaning of words like "menstrual" and "genital." What I said in my small, timorous voice was, "Do you have Gone With the Wind?"
Over the next few years I found what I wanted and more, much of which were ideas of what I could do and whom I could be, most of which have not lived up to my hopeful of expectations. But I also found a home in literature and essay, and a place in my head that tells me that my journey is a lot more important than my destination.
I've got a lot to learn about water color. But I know now that the journey will teach me more than I ever could have hoped, and while the work I create with those expensive brushes will not -- cannot -- meet my self-inflicted goals, the journey I'll take with them will get me to places I'd never expected.

PERMISSION TO PLAY #4: THE FINAL RESULT

TOBY

He's done! My first attempt at a puppet -- and my casual inquiry into the nature of play -- are finished. Toby now has clothes, a name and an emerging story. My many thanks to the readers and friends who responded to my questions about what "play as an adult" means to you. The final answer? No surprises here (insert drum rollo here): there isn't one! However, there was a commonality in the answers I received: Doing something for the sheer joy of doing it, without any expectations of a final score. When I think about it, that's not a bad metaphor for how to live a life!

PERMISSION TO PLAY, INSTALLMENT #3

Stage 4:
Toby now has hair, a beard,
and a name (The Old Boy)

I know there are people who say there are no coincidences. I've never quite fallen in with that philosophy, but every so often something happens that sounds a lot like "pay attention!" These last few days have been filled with one of these shake-'em-up moments. Specifically, a friend asked me if he could pay me to restore his Christmas angel, a much-loved decoration that has been in his family since the 1940's. A week ago I would not have had the courage to take on this project; I've made a lot of art and I've sold a fair number of it, but those pieces were purchased 'after the fact.' This time, I was in the daunting position of possibly ruining a family treasure. But my venture into creating Toby seemed to give me the confidence I needed to tackle Jake's angel.
This got me thinking about what was no doubt the most valuable thing I ever learned in my education courses: We can't learn something new unless we have an earlier skill or bit of knowledge upon which to base it. A simplistic example: We biked because we could walk; we walked because we could crawl; we crawled because we could roll over; we rolled over because someone first helped us perform this amazing feat. (Yeah, I know it's more complicated than that, but I warned you it was a simplistic example.)
So who knows where Toby will take me next? "Play is work that doesn't feel like it," said one of you in my inquiry about what constitutes play after we're "all growed up." Toby and the angel are work. But it sure doesn't feel like it.
By the way, Toby's not done yet. Check back in the next day or two; his wardrobe is almost finished.

PERMISSION TO PLAY, INSTALLMENT #2

Stages 3, 4 & 5

I sanded the rough edges
(and in the process broke off an ear).
Stage 5 was the application of water color.

My exploration of what it means to play for the sake of playing is taking me...and I hope you, too...down some paths I didn't expect. The responses I've received (including those from my questions to friends over coffee and a Danish) for the most part put adult play into one of three categories: competition, performance, and observation. For example:
COMPETITION: tennis, hockey, tag football, broom ball
PERFORMANCE: preparing for a concert or taking part in a dance-centered activity
OBSERVATION: watching a game (pro's and children's, on site and on TV)
One response in particular continues to bump its away into my thoughts: "It seems," said one fellow, "that as adults, we play only with those things that are defined as OK. Fishing, for example, or tossing a football around." He went on to tell me that he'd never do something just for the sake of seeing if he could.... "You know, no audience, no one to show off for."

Then there was the very accomplished knitter who told me that she feels like she's playing whenever she picks up her knitting needles to work on a sweater or a hat or some other piece of apparel. "Have you ever knit something non-functional, something you create just for the sheer joy of seeing what happens?" "Oh no," she said. "I love knitting, but I really don't have time to take a chance that something won't turn out."
I've been watching kids at play lately. They appear oblivious to whether what they're doing will turn out or whether it's "age appropriate." As an adult, I can't recall the last time I did something just for the sheer joy of doing it...until I started messing around with puppets. I'm out of my element. I haven't a clue what I'll do with the little guy above, or if I'll even make any more. Heck...I may not even finish him! But this is the first time I can recall that I've done something for no reason at all...just for the sheer joy of the process. Keep the conversation going; I'll report back and let you know what folks are telling me. In the meantime, let's all play more! Given the bleak economic outlook, we could use a bit more joy.