There was a year I made a series of papier-mâché angels and gave them to my best friends for their Christmas trees. Somehow I did not think to make one for myself, and the top of my tree is bare. I have a lifelong habit of making things and giving them away. The final act of creation is always release. Because art is communication. An offering.
Sometimes we make meaning, and sometimes the offering is simply one of beauty, here is this thing I made. One thing I know for sure about myself is that I am compelled to create. The good stuff, the resonant and universal, comes from a place past consciousness, pulled up through the strata, dragging remnants of those other layers with it. Here is this core piece of me, perhaps one that resides inside of you, too. These extractions of truth are the rare finds. More often I am sifting dirt, sometimes discovering a piece of sandstone, a shard of shale.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. The art we make, whether the simple papier-mâché angel that sits atop the tree, or the resonant piece of writing that’s been labored over for months, is vital–crucial even. Especially now. Amidst the chaos and the vitriol, we must make art. Where they are divisive, we create connection.
No matter your chosen medium, whether your art is big or small, public or private, I call on you to create. Keep going. Hone your craft. Wield your words. Maybe you need to shout and curse or type in caps. Maybe you’re smearing a canvas with wild brushstrokes or playing a violin or knitting a scarf or adorning your home with winterberries. Whatever compels you, whatever asks to made, make that thing. Drag it up from your core through the strata of your being. Excavate truth. This is your healing. This is your resistance. This is your self-song. This is the way forward.
(Post 312 of 365)