ADMITTING TO FAILURE IS KEY TO SUCCESS

When we view someone's creative work, the end result of the creative thoughts that manifest themselves through a medium of some sort--whether it is an oil painting on canvas, the arrangement/collection of high end furniture in a space, a novel, graphic design, photography, sculpture, you name it--do we ever stop to acknowledge the effort? Do we imagine the road blocks to completion, the stumbling along the way, or the glitches in the process? Or do we forget that behind every creative venture stands a flawed human being? Most people would prefer to think that the final product, whatever that might be, came together effortlessly, and was inspired by the endless talent and finely tuned creative process of the individual artist behind it.

"I have not failed, I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work," as Thomas Edison would remind us. No matter how many times you do not succeed in a project, it is acceptable to say that it is part of the learning process that is so vital to our future success as an artist. We learn from our mistakes and our tribulations. And we build on them. Most educators would teach us that it is ok to admit failure and learn from it because that failure is a stepping stone to the next success. So why do most people have such a difficult time admitting to their failures in process? Why do they scapegoat, blame, or worse--pretend they never fail at anything?

Many people have a problem admitting to failure, mistakes and stumbling here and there. They think that it makes them appear weak, or not agile enough to compete in the ever evolving world. And people don't like to appear weak, especially to their competitors or admirers. They would rather fake it, put on a facade, in an attempt to intimidate those around them. Like a charlatan or a con artist. But what they don't realize is that most people can see right through their charade. Most people are pretty good at reading between the lines, and assessing your every move. And the really good ones can take one look at you, size you up in a matter of a few minutes, form their sad judgements about you, and move on without even blinking an eye.

So the next time you are viewing someone's creative work, stop for a moment and think about the individual that created it. Think about what makes that person unique and relatable. Try to imagine their stumbling blocks along the way, imagine what failures they must have encountered in creating their work, and think about what mistakes they might have possibly made.  Never forget that artists are often flawed, weird, and lonely people, and are are deeply emotional, and painfully human.

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PROBABLY AGAINST THE RULES BUT OH WELL

This is probably against the rules. I'm not sure if there are art rules out there that say that you're not supposed to promote other artists or not (that whole competition factor and all), but I can't stop obsessing over this piece by Oliver Gal. 

It is just so summery and heliophilic and it just makes me happy. I will either be buying this soon or attempting my own rendition of something similar. Most likely I will buy it though because I love to support other creatives. Plus it's simply the shit.

image cred: https://www.allmodern.com/Oliver-Gal-Watercoveted-Graphic-Art-on-Canvas-10324-ALIV1504.html

URGES

After some very strong internal urges within my soul to get my arse up to visit my grandma, Chris and I decided to take a very last minute trip up to see her in Louisiana, MO. She has never met our son, Camden, and he is almost a year old. I was having some incredibly strong feelings of guilt about this lately, and we decided that we needed to go see her as soon as possible. She lives high up on a lonely hill, in a small, delicate cottage home, all by herself. She can hardly walk, let alone drive. 

Luckily my dad and his sisters visit her often, mostly to check in on her and make sure she is doing ok and doesn't need anything. Although, I don't think she would ever admit to needing anything even if she did. 

After grandpa passed away several years ago from lung cancer, her attitude toward the world seems to have changed. She is crisp. She is blunt. And she seems to be over what the world has to offer. Who can blame her though? After the world has taken your one and only love, what is there left to live for? To her, it seems like nothing is left. Not even her art, as she no longer paints at all. The same two unfinished canvases (that grandpa assembed for her), have beeing sitting in the same place in her living room, perched on their easels, untouched, for years since his passing. They are just sitting there, patiently waiting. This seems to be her current strategy in life. Patiently waiting.

We walked into her house after no one answered the door after several minutes of knocking. I found her in her back bedroom on the phone. I didn't want to startle her, and after a few hesitant moments, she finally looked up at me in surprise. "Oh, you'll never guess who just walked in," she said into the phone. "It's Liz and a little boy," she said with a grin.

Tears immediately welled up into my eyes. I felt an immense wave of guilt for taking so long to visit her. I think it had been almost two years since I had seen her. I don't even have a good excuse. I'd like to blame the busyness of life, but even that seems trite to me at the moment.

She and my grandpa were always very simple people. They moved to Missouri from the East coast, and they never had children of their own. They adopted my dad and his two sisters, and never believed in spending money on things. They lived in a small house, up high on a hill deep in the woods, and believed in doing good things for the earth and for other people. My grandpa was a photographer, a poet, and a journalist for a local newspaper, and she was a librarian and a painter. We could only spend a few hours with her and my dad, as we were timing the long drive back home with Camden's afternoon nap.

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She was so excited when I told her about me beginning to paint again. I could tell she was trying hard to contain her enthusiasm, as she put her hands together, twister her mouth into a suppressed smile and said under her breath, "Oh I am so glad to hear that. Oh that makes me happy."

She was always my most encouraging supporter when it came to my art. I spent a few minutes taking photographs of her oil paintings (that adorned every square inch her walls), while sneaking in a few portraits of her as well (even though she demanded I leave her out of the frame of my camera). 

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There is so much mystery surrounding my grandma. There is so much I don't know about her, grandpa, and the story behind my dad and the adoption of him and his two sisters, and the history behind it all. When I've asked questions in the past, it seems painful for people to talk about. No one wants to talk about it at all. I want to dig deeper, but it is not received well.  And it kills me. Maybe one day I will have more answers...

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DIY PAPER FEATHERS

I'M A SUCKER FOR FEATHERS. Especially those of the whimsical, paper, DIY kind. Which is why I instantly fell head over heels for these paper feathers used as gift toppers on Pinterest. Original post here.

Image cred: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/287737863667609845/

THEIR LOVE FOR EACH OTHER, THEIR LIBRARY, AND THEIR ART GALLERY

I come from a family of INCREDIBLY talented artists. On both my mom's side and my dad's side.

My grandma on my dad's side is probably the most talented woman I have ever met. Her oil paintings are incredible, awe-inspiring, even magical. Growing up, I can remember grandpa assembling her canvases and frames for her, and her easel was set up right in the middle of her cluttered living room, next to the window so she could watch the deer eat the corn that she had just thrown outside.

Her house smelled like old books, and there was never anywhere comfortable to sit. The old book smell was my grandpa's fault. He loved books. He loved to write poems. I can still remember the way his office looked, felt, and even smelled like an old library, with his vast collection of aged hardcovers, his ridiculously bright fluorescent desk lamp, and his collection of old arrowheads that he had found throughout Missouri. He would take me in his office to show me some of his books, read excerpts to me, and ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had no idea. And I never wanted to sit there and listen to him read. I of course pretended to be interested, because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. And there was nothing else to do at their house, so I sat there, half engaged in what he was saying and half thinking about what I was going to do that upcoming weekend.

He passed away a few years ago, and I completely regret my flippant attitude. He was such a neat man. And I never gave him the chance to really show me everything he knew. He had so much to teach me, so much to share, and I was a total idiot child.

I have an old, dusty book, The Poems of Robert Frost, that he gave me when I was 17. It's now sitting on my living room bookshelf to remind me of him, and to serve as a constant reminder to live in the moment of everyday, instead of living just to get to the next day. Life is so short. We should relish the moments that we have in the here and now.

My grandma has since lost her passion for painting. She has no one to put so much love into assembling her canvases and she has severe osteoporosis. She still watches the deer outside her window.

There is barely an inch of free wall space in her house, as her paintings adorn just about every square inch of them. And that's why I think there was never anywhere comfortable to sit. It forced you to get up, walk around, and take a look at the present, or in this case, their love for each other, their library, and their art gallery.

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I'm sorry I don't have any of her work to share on here, or I would do so in a heart beat. I'm thinking about taking a quick trip up to see her soon. I know I need to. Time is chasing us down.