Artist (...or rescuer of the jettisoned ?)

''Regard perçant de sagesse fougueuse''.
En mémoire de ma chère amie Tonya.

Last week took place my third art show in this country (and the fourth over the past 12 years). As usual, I was scrambling at the last minute to pack my items, some more fragile and delicate than others, a semblance of a lunch (consisting of leftover dolmas, blueberries, almonds and dark chocolate), a water bottle, and even watercolors, a glue stick and papers in case I had time to finish some cards I had started (and was having a really enjoyable time designing). When everything was finally decently arranged and loaded in the car, I had 45 minutes between the car ride (fortunately less than a minute long since the venue happened to be the country club up the hill) and the beginning of the event. Which means I had roughly 40 minutes to park, unload and carry my stuff, trouble-shoot (there is always the disconcerting  discovery of a thing painfully missing -and useful- that I forgot), dispose my artwork on the table assigned to my (misspelled) name, regulate my nervous system and put on a smile.

The emotional regulation part was no small feat, as I had dealt with many emotions and sensations that had surfaced during my last stretch of the production phase while finding samples of creativity of my sons when they were younger, like heart cutouts... And not to mention the revisitation of the funny tales in the children's books with illustrations put together just for them.

It took me less than 20 minutes to spread my stuff on the black tablecloth, which filled me with perplexity and unease. Suddenly, my production seemed quite anemic compared to my impression at home. Somehow, in my environment, it felt as though I had more than enough. I even stopped myself, intentionally repeating, ''this is enough''. Meaning, this quantity is totally acceptable. But the insecurity started creeping in as I realized with a profound discouragement that I had promised myself to not expose my persona to such a lamentable posture among what I found to be so many professional and prolific artists. My ''work'' looked so elemental, if not pathetic, in comparison. 

I caught myself in this self-judgment, so I paused and wondered, ''okay, what am I supposed to be practicing now ? What is this renewed humiliation meant to teach me ?''. Because everything in life (especially the unpleasant and the adverse) is supposed to be an opportunity to practice.

First of all, PATIENCE. I know. One of my great qualities is my sense of ''joy urgency'' called... impatience. But this table... really ? It was next to the kitchen door, making me resent all this rush of stressful energy in the incessant back-and-forth of the employees... And I soon hated the location of my table even more as I saw how exposed my section was from the back. Almost half of it could be seen from another section of the room (staircase). I was like at a junction, and people could easily see the behind-the-scenes of my display, including the improvised support I used to make my art stand. Such as my lunch bag, my water bottle...  Just by looking at what I used to display my items, my gypsy nature clearly transpired. And not to mention the state of my house... It had been converted into a whole workshop. There were pieces of paper, fabric, scissors etc everywhere: on 3 tables, 2 couches, one desk, the kitchen counter and even the floor.

I muttered a few Québécois swear words. My friends and dear ones had not showed up yet... I desperately needed support and unconditional acceptance. 

An old lady stopped by to admire. ''This is so beautiful, it's so different''. Yes, I guess that confirms my ennéatype (4 !) and its need to be unique. Some others said ''creative'', ''ingenious''. Yep, I am loyal to my own originality, even if it is not super popular. It's because I am not a decent painter LOL.  As if I found the process intimidating: to mix paint, find the right brush, then to layer it on a canvas while aligning the work with a vision, or visual composition. There seems to be a hierarchy in art: painting and sculpture generate the most respect. But gluing stamps on jaundiced newspaper from 1913 ?

Goodness... I knew that I should have listened to myself and bring a book ! Time was so slow, I felt hostages of such ruminations !

Instead of hiding in a good novel about a main character whose life would be more glorious than mine at that moment, as a consolation pastime, I decided to reflect candidly, without filter (and write, in my notebook that rarely leaves me) about the accumulation (AKA hoarding) of my art materials. I guess it makes sense that hoarding is a way to cope with grief for many. Surrounding oneself with many tangible objects prevents us from feeling engulfed by the void and silence left by the absence of the deceased or exiled. Even if it is to the point of suffocation. Maybe a way to counter the agoraphobia of the soul ?

Then, I started a conversation with an oil painter, G., after she stopped by my table to say, ''tell me about your art''. Gulp. She was clearly an artist, and my impression got confirmed once she told me she came from a lineage of artists. Her grandmother was, and her mother was, and one day this talented woman with a British accent woke up and decided she would be an artist too. It seemed so easy. My relationship with art feels a little more... clandestine ? I have always liked to draw. But for me, this is what I did almost everyday and it was normalized. I didn't think there was anything too special about it, even if in elementary school, my drawing was selected by Caisse Populaire Desjardins sketching contest every year. My favorite extra-curricular activity was the craft session on Saturday morning at the community center.  I have also always liked to write and started illustrating my own self-created stories starting at age 8. I also learned how to sew at around 8. The age with the symbol of infinity...

The mixed media eventually emerged and got more consolidated as my preferred art form as an adult. I consider myself more a self-taught artist, my parents' creativity having been expressed totally differently than mine (my mom in her outdoor plants, my dad in his irreverent sense of humor). I learned to develop my skills through observation, exploration, discovery and trial and error. I was the one to use the sewing machine and baking recipe book at my mother's, and the commissioned greeting card maker in our family so to speak. What helped me was my hyperacute sensitivity to beauty and my propensity to find the sacred in the ordinary, not to mention a florid imagination allowing me to see the countless possibilities hidden in a piece of junk. As a result, I started rescuing seemingly worthless items (used stamps, corks, century-old newspapers, beach glass, scraps of fabric...). If I let them lay around in some proverbial disarray long enough, their juxtaposition would inevitably lead to some magical combination inspiring me to create artwork.

Greeting card

And during some of those moments that feel just as magical, I seem to fully embrace my ''Georges-aux-Cossins'' vibe (see blog post from December 2024), as I become the queen of the discarded. Of rejected, abandoned objects. Just like, in some way, my inclusive nature cannot help but to see the beauty and inner riches in people who are pushed aside, misunderstood, ridiculed. And those who survived the injustice of rejection are, in my opinion, the truest, most quintessential form of Art.