Friday, October 5, 2007
I am definitely not Type A, at least not when I'm living authentically. Back when I was a prosecutor (motivated by a sense of Karmic duty to domestic violence and child abuse victims as well as the dubious quest for trial experience), I had to live a Type A lifestyle in order to keep it together-- working 90 hours a week, still trying to keep my yoga practice intact, making art only when there was *time*-- it required a lot of planning and scheduling, but not a lot of time to think or relax. This was not my path.
My path involves volunteering, teaching yoga to the elderly and at-risk youth, using the old law license on a low-key basis in an office at home, painting everyday, keeping the home fires burning and the such. Part of inching my way back to the path of living a truly authentic life has involved giving myself time to play. Play at yoga. Play at art. Playing is hard when you limit yourself to tools that are *too precious* to mess up. I've mentioned this before, but I do some of my best work (or my favorite work, at least) on cheap, throwaway materials. They allow me the freedom to just do what comes naturally, rather than plan out everything to the point where I've stiffled any of the ideas that have swirled into my brain at 5 a.m. But now that I have begun the process of offering my work for sale, I am torn about my re-use, re-tool, re-cycle tendencies. I want to give someone the best quality materials possible. Hmmmmm. Sounds like I might need to get over my *fear* of good materials. I think the new Fabriano paper might be just the starting point.
But before I do, I have some pack-rat scribbles to share with you, dear readers. The backstory: my husband studied geology as an undergraduate. He has all of these fabulous books from those days. I love digging through them to find new words or images. As I was looking through a petrology book, I found a cache of old tests and study guides. These are such a lovely bit of archeology, in my opinion, his twenty-year old boy handwriting, atrocious spelling, the professor's notes, it's so fascinating. The next day, though, I found the pile of tests in the recycling bin. What? I asked him if he really wanted to get rid of them. He gave me one of those "not everyone keeps their retainer from junior high" looks, so I knew he had let it go. Nonetheless, I thought it proper to ask him if I could scribble on them. These images are the result. Un-precious fun.