August 2, 2009

Sorry about not having written. Yesterday was my birthday, and tomorrow is my dental surgery. On this day in between, I just feel older and feebler.

Last night my friends surprised me with a celebration. In the course of it, one remarked that she was not in the least creative. When I hear something like this, I try to put another thought on the table, but it doesn't change anyone's mind. I think that we, as artists, have done a number on people and have succeeded very well. We've convinced them that, unless the Art Fairy flitted over their cradles and touched them with their wands, or unless they completed a university degree in Fine Art, they cannot claim to be "creative," or choose wallpaper with any degree of confidence.

Thomas Aquinas defined Art as, "Right reason about that which is to be made." Made is the significant word, here. Have you tried to influence your children to become good people? Do you take pride in your garden? The quilt you made? The flowers you placed on the table? The golf swing you practiced a milliion times? Your excellent moves on a skateboard? The pot of stew your mother taught you how to make? The efficient system you designed and put into place for organizing the office? The kind of person you've turned out to be? (And that's the most important.) Well, these are the earmarks of creativity, in my book. And if you dress with an eye for color and style, you're artistic.

Maybe because we were afraid that our art was unimportant, we hid it in mystery. There is something off-putting about "specialized" knowledge. We convinced the world that we were the only ones who knew, and then we wondered why the other people claim ignorance. I, who have devoted much of her life to fine art, deliberately and with force, refer to myself as an "artist," wondering if the listener/reader will think me presumptuous and pompous.

Tomorrow I face my crucible. I hope I make a good job of it. I hope I do it artistically.

PW