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May. 11th, 2017 10:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
balmofgileadTonight I went to a writing workshop, sort of on a whim, mostly because someone I had coffee with yesterday (totally platonically!) was leading it and invited me.
When did I stop being able to make art?
Maybe I was never able to make art.
Most people in the workshop wrote things that felt more surreal. I want concrete. Lovely turns of phrase, sure, but grounded in reality, don't let go, keep at least a foot on the ground, maybe even a hand just to be safe.
When I was five I kneaded little lumps of gluestick into balls and rolled them in talcum powder to make pearlescent stick-on decorations for the trailing pink flowers I drew. What else do you draw when you're a girl who's five? Maybe that just reinforces that I was never able to make art.
I'm afraid of singing in groups. I blame this on childhood, when my voice was lower than everyone else's and I couldn't hit the notes we were supposed to be singing, at least not easily. But this lasts. So not that kind of art.
When I was in third grade I went to ceramics every week. I only wanted to make chunky, uncontoured pottery on the wheel. Butch pottery? I resisted the ceramics teacher's plan to taper the edges in. Maybe that was my own kind of art.
When did I stop being able to make art?
Maybe I was never able to make art.
Most people in the workshop wrote things that felt more surreal. I want concrete. Lovely turns of phrase, sure, but grounded in reality, don't let go, keep at least a foot on the ground, maybe even a hand just to be safe.
When I was five I kneaded little lumps of gluestick into balls and rolled them in talcum powder to make pearlescent stick-on decorations for the trailing pink flowers I drew. What else do you draw when you're a girl who's five? Maybe that just reinforces that I was never able to make art.
I'm afraid of singing in groups. I blame this on childhood, when my voice was lower than everyone else's and I couldn't hit the notes we were supposed to be singing, at least not easily. But this lasts. So not that kind of art.
When I was in third grade I went to ceramics every week. I only wanted to make chunky, uncontoured pottery on the wheel. Butch pottery? I resisted the ceramics teacher's plan to taper the edges in. Maybe that was my own kind of art.
