Cozy

Leaning back in my grey loveseat, heels perched on the coffee table with my shoes still on, I feel cozy and sleepy. From torso to toes, I’m covered in a thick, pink blanket that wraps around my legs.

The cotton fabric is covered with faded checks of white and pink, stamped with flowers and little breast cancer ribbons. It’s my mom’s blanket, which my oldest brother made for her when he was in college. He tied two big squares together with flaps at the border, making bulky knots that now peek from beneath my elbows as I type.

It’s nice to feel comfortable. It reminds me of being younger, before all the adult things crept in. The comfort of the house I grew up in, the comfort of knowing I’d go to school each day and decide the rest when I was older.

Growing up sometimes feels like the window is open and there’s no blanket in sight. But for now, it’s nice to feel cozy, happy in a moment. It’s good to breathe it in, and even drift off to sleep…

Here on the Porch

Here on the porch, the air is perfectly cool. Warm gray floorboards reflect the shade, while a glorious pale blue bay peeks through the curly patterns of metal chairs. I see shapes made of light in the negative space, reminded of one of my first lessons in painting as a teenager.

From my seat on an old couch glider, worn down railings form a gentle perspective of the square space. And although it is early afternoon, you can tell that the wood has seen many nights of noisy dinners and candlelight board games, boasting its crucial role in the house with discolored edges and a crooked, overused door.

It’s the porch. It’s where you’d say, ‘let’s go chat on the porch,’ like the place is as much a friend as the person you’re visiting with.

There’s familiarity in its geometric shape, with its three sides of floor-to-ceiling screens. Today, the weather is crisp with early spring, but those see-through walls offer the best kind of security in the buggy summer heat.

For now, I let the memories spill out, filling my cube of comfort and then leaking through the floorboards, down the grassy bank, and into the bay that sits still as a held breath.

It's OK to be a Mess

I never thought of myself as a perfectionist. My apartment is a mess, I’m a horrible planner, and I can’t meal prep for my life.

At the same time, I tend to be an anxious person, and I always used to associate anxiety with chasing some sort of perfect life. So if I’m fine with clothes and pencils all over the floor, what would make me anxious?

As I sat down today to look around my apartment, I realized that my messiness may have more to do with perfection than I thought.

Have you ever put off a task because you were afraid you wouldn’t do it right? Like never getting around to making that chicken recipe because you think you’ll just mess it up? Well, I’m finding that’s me, but in almost every task.

I have wanted to hang pictures in my apartment since I moved in November (it’s now April…) but I don’t, because I know it’ll be wrong and I’ll just have to redo it and who wants all those holes in the wall? So the big, beige empty spaces stare at me everyday wondering when I’ll get around to decorating. And I keep putting off cleaning my closet, because I don’t like how it’s organized anyway, so why not just leave everything on the floor? And you can see how this logic gets me into trouble.

But after a long chat with my mom and some worthwhile journaling, I could tell that the real reason I’m messy is because I worry I won’t be perfect. I worry that my apartment, my cooking, or my plans won’t turn out the way I want, and that would be the absolute end. I’m afraid of what failure looks like, so I keep around the mess I already know and love.

It’s an important lesson in just how much I can doubt myself without realizing it, revealed through tiny habits each day. So I’ve started to break down those habits and the thoughts that start them. I’m telling myself it’s OK for the living room walls to not look like Pinterest. It’s OK for my daily life to be normal, quiet and unremarkable, with no big plans on the horizon. It’s OK for my cooking to fail miserably. And especially as I spend much more time with myself at home these days, I have to remember that there’s something to be said for doing things your own way and finding them, and yourself, beautiful.

Kitchen Window

In the early afternoon, someone with a leaf blower clears the shavings of fall and winter off the bridge near my kitchen window. I can’t see them, but I can hear the rise and fall of a deep hum with each sweep of the sidewalk. I imagine the leaves jumping aside in bright oranges and reds, forgetting for a moment that it’s almost April.

After listening for a few minutes, my gaze drifts slowly from the window to my studio apartment. I see frames waiting to be hung and colored pencils begging for use; yarn projects drape the top of my bookshelf and I think about making great artwork. Eyebrows tightening, I find the window again. The sky is the color of an old art eraser, smudgy and grey, full of mistakes.

The leaf blower has stopped and I hear acoustic, sleepy music from my speakers. Back and forth my eyes go, between that sky and my studio, like the machine did as it swept side to side on the bridge. My body feels full with gravity in my high table chair, and not for the first time, I fear that another day will pass without making art.

Ivy from my Desk

From my art desk, I see straight out my window and into a wall. Fortunately, it’s a wall covered in year-round green ivy…but still, a wall.

One story above me, that wall becomes an iron fence on an old bridge. The iron is painted white, curving inward at the top towards the street. On a cloudy day like today, there isn’t much to look at but the ivy and that fence, so I imagine the people walking up there in twos and threes, occasionally hearing laughter or indistinguishable chatter. I keep thinking I’ll see someone looking down at me, but I won’t, because a line of bike share docks line the sidewalk on my side.

It’s nice that the wall is green, at least, layered like a million post-its on top of each other. The waterfall of leaves have a softness, pointing downward in different ways, like stamps from the same design. From my grey chair, I can’t see that far, down to where they look. And I don’t try. I keep looking up at the iron fence, waiting to see someone there.

Patterns and Paper

I remember two years ago when I first started to play with collage. I went down to Michaels (also known as Heaven) and picked out a few textured and patterned papers. Kneeling on the ground back at my studio, I started cutting up my new paper and making shapes. I taped them to an 8x11 piece of white paper, and honestly felt like i was back in kindergarten. Is this fine art? But I kept going, because every step in the creative process is important in its own way.

One of my professors saw my work and suggested that, instead of buying patterned paper, I made my own. I didn’t even realize that was a thing. Frankly, the process sounded daunting when I had just started collaging, but I did a little research and kept the thought in the back of my mind.

I am still collaging, bringing in old clothes and other fabrics. But I’ve also started taking more pictures. A few weeks ago, I decided to combine the two arts by taking pictures of my collages, then editing and cropping the images. After printing out those photos, I found even more interesting patterns. It reminded me of making my own paper like my professor suggested. I’m not using dyes or water mixtures, but I am making something really interesting. Now my patterns help me make new collages, and the results are really exciting.

I Have Netflix To Thank

This might sound surprising, but I’m finding that Netflix binging is making me a better artist. Yes, endless hours (days?) of being a potato have boosted my creative mind. Here’s why.

It all started when I got into the show When Calls the Heart. It’s a super sappy Hallmark show…so naturally, gold. But what I love most about it is the period clothing. It takes place in a 1910s, Western frontier town. And amidst the smiley characters and happy Hallmark endings are the big skirts and patterned blouses I would die to wear. I actually went to a local vintage shop and checked out ThredUp online to see what I could find. Cue my favorite memories of a denim maxi skirt I wore every day in elementary school.

As my obsession with period clothing grew, fabric started taking center stage at my art desk. I pulled clothes from the donation pile in my closet and started cutting, layering, and hot gluing things together. I loved the 3D look of fabric that was folded and wrinkled. I made shadows and shapes. Patterns looked even more interesting up close. I even had to stop myself from cutting nice clothes i still wear and need (oops).

Slowly, I’ve added ribbons, yarn, paper, and photographs. My apartment is a mess, but I’m flowing.

I believe inspiration can come from anywhere, even things that might seem like “a waste of time.” When I hit a rut, one way to get going is to ask myself why I read certain books, hang out with certain people, and yes, binge watch certain TV shows. What draws me in, and how can I study it more? It’s also one way to see my life more positively and be less critical of my habits.

So, with that I say: thanks, Netflix. Maybe when I’m big we can make a documentary?

BRB, hitting play on the next episode.

The Only Thing I Have to Fear Is...

Two years ago, I started to think very differently as an artist.  Now, I hope I don’t lose what I learned.

In high school, when I first started to use oil, I made colorful paintings of houses and people.  I loved learning about color. In college, I moved outside the box, using bolder colors, bigger canvases, and abstract shapes.  Through both stages, I concentrated on the paint most of all.

In my art program at PAFA two years ago, my peers and professors finally challenged the way I thought about painting.  They told me my paintings of still life and family members were awkward, photographic, and a bit boring. They asked, “What do you really want to paint?” 

After that, I felt hurt and a bit lost, and had no idea what I wanted to paint.   Eventually, I just started to play, using feelings instead of photos.  And after studying the creepy works of Francis Bacon, whose work I hated, I decided to paint the emotion I hated most: fear. 

I thought about growing up, about feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, and about feeling unsure of my future.  I searched for something with my brushes – Courage? Honestly? Both?

One night, chatting in my studio, a recent PAFA graduate said, “Your work is dark.”  I was so surprised.  Who, me? Little, cheery Katie? Dark?  

But deep down, I wanted someone to say that.  Yes, I am a bit dark, but no one sees that part. I enjoy making colorful paintings that make people smile, but the art I love more is sharp and aggressive.  I want to feel deeply. And I want to be the artist who makes others feel deeply.

The drawing below is my 2017 portrayal of fear, inspired by the mortifying “Screaming Popes” series by Francis Bacon. I look back and see this piece as a turning point in my career as an artist.  I made something that was less about the end product and more about its growth. Although I don’t plan to toss aside everything I learned about painting early on, I want to keep and not be afraid of this bravery that I found.