news flash * * * 58 year old woman tries new stuff

Today is my birthday! 

No one has asked for a birthday message, but I’ve got one anyway:

It is never too late to try new stuff.

It’s always been hard for me to call myself an “artist” mostly because (in my mind, at any rate) an artist should know how to… gulp… draw. I’ve always been a decent doodler, but that’s about it. Seriously not a drawer or, heavens no! never a painter. I wish I was, though, that’s for sure.

Just before I left Portland, I stumbled upon a great sale at Dick Blick’s and loaded up on all sorts of art supplies to take to Uganda. The children at the orphanage can (and do) teach me a thing or two about drawing and painting every time I go.

I decided to crack open one of the boxes of pastels. I’ve watched Willy, Brian, Nicky, Oscar, Leku, Issy and the others work magic with them in the art room. I’ve watched, but I’ve never felt confident enough to make even a mark with one of the colorful pieces of chalk.

But one night in Estes Park, I decided to do just that. I opened up a sketch pad and started drawing, then blending the strokes together. An  hour or so later, by the time I cleaned up the mess and went to bed, I was hooked.

I started by making drawings of heads. Still very timid, I only used the black stick at first. I did so many drawings that first night and blended the strokes with such enthusiasm that by the next morning three fingers on my right had had been rubbed raw.

When I got back to Kansas City, I continued to play around with my box of pastels and bought a new, larger pad of charcoal paper. I rubbed more lightly, and I ventured into color.

I tried to create something magical.

I tried to be very careful.

I tried to be spontaneous, loose and messy.

So messy, in fact, that when I left my studio the other day and met up with a friend, she said, “Boy, you got yourself quite a shiner. What happened?” It took me a minute to realize I had probably wiped my filthy, pastel powdered hand across my face, just close enough to my eye that it appeared as if I'd walked into a cabinet or been on the receiving end of errant pop fly at a Royals game. 

I love the physicality of laying down the marks and blending the colors. I love the grit behind my nails when I’m finished. I love that I have no idea what I’m about to try to make when I face a blank piece of paper and lift a stick out of its little compartment in the cardboard box. I love that I can just throw away anything that doesn't work and keep reaching for the next piece of paper.

Mostly I love that I'm doing something brand new on the occasion of turning 58 and celebrating yet another year of living this 'ole life of mine.

Old dog, new tricks! Yay!!

Now pass that olive green stick my way, please. Oh, and try something new today. Even if you're old like me!

(Did you know that in Portland older folks are not called elderly or anything remotely comparable. We are called "honored citizens." I like it!)