I woke up bright and early today. Actually, I awoke by moonset. The full moon was so bright I could read my clock by it—3:30 a.m.
For some reason, I was convinced my bunnies were freezing to death in the mudroom, so I got up to coax them into the studio. It WAS cold--5 degrees by our thermometer--but as I had to bribe the older one in with handfuls of Cheerios, I'm not sure their death was imminent.
Oh well, as long as I'm up....
So I'm in my studio putting the last few touches to it, clearing another surface here and there. In a few hours, Steve Dunwell, a photographer from Boston, will be here. He's on assignment from American Style magazine to shoot images of me, my work, my studio and my home. You can see Steve's work at www.stevedunwell.com and you can visit American Style magazine at www.americanstyle.com. American Style magazine is published for collectors of fine craft, with articles on art, craft, travel and interior design.
The writer, Hilary Nangle, was here a month ago to do the actual article. I've heard it's a good one, too. The focus is on me, an artist, and the environment I've created to produce my art--the things I've surrounded myself with that inform and inspire my art.
It's an artist's dream come true, of course, except for one nagging fear. I'm afraid I've also surrounded myself with an incredibly MESSY environment. And although I know American Style will focus on the best parts, it's still hard to open up your life to such perusal.
Will they think I'm nuts?
We've done all we can to make our home sparkle, which is hard with a house full of teenagers (we only have two, but we are Teen Grand Central Station for their friends, which we encourage), pets (we're down to eleven!) and two working parents who are both passionate about what they do. The editor assures me that the readers are not really interested in how bad our carpeting looks, but how interesting our lives look. I try not to worry about the windows. Didn't photographers used to smear lenses with vaseline to obtain the same soft, filmy look my dirty windows will provide with ease? As for the dust?. Patina. Think....patina.
But what I really worry about is, do I look crazy? I mean, my life, looking from the outside in...does it look at all normal? Our plumber stepped inside my studio yesterday. His wife is an artist, too, an oil painter. So he should know the drill. But he looked around thoughtfully and said, "You sure have a lot of stuff."
What did he mean by that? Is it a good thing? Or does my wall of fabric, stacks of bead trays, collection of Japanese pin cushions and small exotic dolls look....off-putting? Was he amazed in a GOOD way, or just being diplomatic?
It DOES get hard to work in here sometimes. The piles accumulate, and the chaos encroaches until I find myself working in a tiny space no larger than 6"x6". Is this crazy?? I ask myself. And if so, is it ARTISTIC crazy? Or is it the old-lady-with-a-room-full-of-piles-of-old-newspapers-crazy? (And yes, I've known some.)
Finally, here in the wee hours of the new day, I have to let it go.
This is who I am. This is who I've ALWAYS been.
My mother used to haul boxes of rocks, sticks, pretty scraps of paper and shells out of my closet periodically, threatening to toss them all if I didn't get the piles under control. (Now, of course, my own children have the same incredibly dense, incredibly layered rooms. My mother is totally revenged on me and usually refrains for saying so--what a mom!)
My life, my environment—and now my art—has ALWAYS been about complexity. Expressed in intricate collections of things, layers of texture, color, pattern, and now story and meaning. It shows in my daily life, my relationships with people, my writing and my art. It's never simple, and it's never easy. But it's never dull, either.
I'm always sorting my possessions into ever-changing groups of things that just seem to BELONG together. Each little group tells some sort of story to me.
And really, I can't work any other way. I've tried to maintain clean surfaces and clear work spaces. It doesn't last. Soon, the beads and the artifacts and the threads are piled up again, just within reach, and that little six-inch square of working area is all I can focus on. Out of all the chaos comes something precious and beautiful and intense. I hope.
So I'll try not to care tomorrow if I hear any grumbling or stunned silences—though, from talking to Steve by phone and e-mail, I'm sure he's way too professional to ever let such an editorial comment slip out. If this is mental illness, well, then, as my friend Lee says, it's the very best kind. It hasn't kept me from enjoying a marriage, a family, a circle of friends, or creating art.
And, after all, maybe this is all part of my art, too.
P.S. The article is scheduled for the March/April 2006 issue, so look for the magazine on newsstands the third week of February!
