Play around, just because it’s fun. And play around with artistic textures via these three easy steps. Bonus – repurpose expired food!
MARVEL
Here’s a glimpse into the SHE-HE-THEY SHED, where the repurposed magic occurs, discussed throughout this blog and referenced in the most recent podcast – “Repurpose Your Artistry Like a Toddler.”
Thank you, to my dear daughter – for helping to name the space as the “SHE-HE-THEY SHED,” where all imaginators are welcome!
https://anchor.fm/jess743/embed/episodes/Repurpose-Your-Artistry–Like-a-Toddler-eeiapq/a-a208870
Make snow out of flour…
The topic of boredom has come up a lot lately…with clients, with acquaintances, with family. Last evening, I was guilty of a monologue regarding the hives that grow (in my head), when I hear this word.
Boredom
While I practice and actually believe in empathy no matter someone’s point of view – valid – because it is their point of view, I have struggled with people claiming boredom lately. At first, I got super righteous and described to my spouse that my allergic reaction felt on par with every time some (privileged-in-my-eyes) person might complain that their stock portfolio is stressing them out. My social worker within, as they say – born into our profession, perhaps – the social worker in me hears the idea of boredom or stock portfolio issues – and I immediately think of hierarchy of needs. I think of my work with persons who are chronically homeless, I think of clients or colleagues who wish for a safe place to sleep, I think of people on the threshold of psychosis (the terrifying state where awareness meets the edge of a spiral) and I think of brothers and sisters of different skin tone from my own – and I automatically think, boredom? Stock portfolio? Really? Many people might be glad to have what some might coin #privileged problems.
My spouse felt I was being unfair. And, like most any spousal disagreement, he is not entirely wrong (just like, 99%, right? wink wink). The belief, he supposed, was itself too generalized. Dang it, he has a point. In my line of work, after all, I do not see much variance between the haves and the have-nots regarding hierarchy of needs. After all, there is some alleged research that says beyond a certain base income or poverty level, suffering is merely a state of mind.
I get that. I can absorb that. I witness the inner pain of the highly pressured teen student; I witness the dutiful spouse who gives of their health for the pride of the family; I witness the person who surrendered their own dreams and imagination – to stay the course for basic freedoms or finances.
But, why then – do boredom and stock portfolio references illuminate as my privileged problem?
It’s a bit ironic, I suppose. It’s kind of my take-back on trauma. It’s my take back on my own sense of an oppressed experience – an experience less defined on my terms, often, and evolved til devolving from identity as seen by others – religious minority, female, abstract thinker, introvert (…less than, as you should be, or as I know you to be); a long standing burden. I’m the problem solver, the saint, the mascot, the “Jew that I know…but she’s not that Jewish.” I’m the survivor, the terrified of…because it happened.
I’ve had to define and redefine my situation for as long as I remember.
And for that, now, in irony – and a sort of taking back of trauma – as the world struggles with a very real global trauma – I look into the faces of people who think something will make or break them. I listen to people who consider that they are bored, victim of the way things change. I listen to people acknowledging, perhaps, as if for the first time – the nature of the universe is impermanence and chaos.
And I say: listen to me – my friend, my brother and sister, listen to the wisdom from previous survivors – your personal definition, or ability to imagine and adapt to right here and right now, it is bound only by your willingness to redefine your situation.
Welcome to the other side, we are a land of nomadic wanderers. And, as the bumper sticker goes, “Not all who wander, are lost.”
Stay safe, healthy, connected, and nourished – that is all that we need to survive. The rest, icing…
We made it to Apple Podcasts, last week! Hoot hoot! Ty, listeners….and stay well. J
Artistic angles, I refer to often, are available moments that combine awareness and expression. Awareness is simply what exists within and around us. Expression happens when we synthesize what we become aware of. Sometimes, the expression is literal or matter of fact. Sometimes, the expression is as abstract as your imagination allows…
Combining impulses, of awareness and expression, mindful art-making reveals itself. When we are aware and expressive, I suggest that you’re living your artistic angles out loud.
Bring attention to the thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations from within, right now. Jot them down for future inspiration:
Thoughts—
Feelings—
Physical Sensations—
Then, look outside of yourself. Notice the natural plus not-so-natural state of the things. Gather what you notice from your unique angles on life and the world. There is no wrong way to find inspiration in this way. Again, feel free to jot down notes for future inspiration:
The Natural World Around Me—
The Not-So-Natural World Around Me—
My Imagination—
True artists construct from whatever angles exist, with whatever materials spread out within and before them. In true artistry, the true part involves recognizing then piecing together the artistic angles.
Angles spring from personal experiences (thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations), the world around us, and our imaginary universe. Some artists prefer one of these angles more than others. Their work reflects this. Some vary between the angles, and some flow seamlessly between all three.
Inspired by this excerpt from Reframe Your Artistry, published by Prodigy Gold Books – go onward and broaden your artistic angles, no matter the current confines.
Reframe Your Artistry the podcast – via Anchor FM, catch up and calm down with Jess, available via most podcast distributors – including Google Podcasts, Spotify, Breaker, and Radio Public…and aiming for Apple, TBA!
Even the local grocer is crying out for creative problem solving…let’s all begin again.
Needless to say (which happens to be my toddler’s favorite transition statement, at the moment – FYI, thanks to the Little Critter books), so yeah – needless to say, we are in a period of forced firsts. When we use the term forced, it sounds so rough and aggressive, no? Hmmm, I’ll begin again, for the sake of modeling…
Welcome back to a period of new beginnings. Rethink how you want to be living? Reimagine how you wish to be art making? Rethink how to spend time (in the flesh, eye to eye, skin to skin) with those you cohabitate with? Reimagine….possibility.
There is no time, like this moment, to start living with new intentions and habits.
Let’s begin again, as I often say…let’s begin again:
The more time we spend with something in open curiosity, rather than routine applications, the more dynamic it becomes. Frequent beginner’s outlook applications result in novelty and playfulness. Open to the subtleties. It’s good for you. Do not judge outcomes, just take in the moment of creation.
Reach for a new palette, explore new materials, work in a new environment, consider artistic genres of which you are curious, explore a new or neglected voice.
In these new moments of art making, begin with fresh intentions and point of view. The rest is subjective shaping, morphing into whatever it is that you – the artist– constructs – and the audience perceives, which often isn’t one and the same. How fun!
As a young dancer, I had a career ending injury. Weekly visits to a top doc could not fix my situation. While I attended those lengthy appointments in Philly, I’d get teased for things like my fascination with the obituary section of Dance Magazine and the fact that I was from Phoenixville.
“Phoenix, Arizona?” a fellow patient asked.
“No, Phoenixville,” I said.
“I love Phoenix,” that same patient responded.
“She said, Phoenixville,” the medical assistant clarified. She followed with something like, “no one has heard of it. Very different than Phoenix.”
And they shared a chuckle at my expense.
I went back to reading, then. That is what I did.
When injury permanently sidelined me, at fifteen, dad asked me to take a drive with him. Drive: code for pep talk. We drove along Phoenixville’s main street: Bridge Street. He played Doo-wop. Maybe he also longed for a more hopeful time.
He said, “we are checking town.”
He pointed out the – then – shutdown Colonial movie theater where the Blob had been filmed. He pointed out the half-dozen places he’d worked.
He pointed out shops that his own father had owned during the ’50s and ’60s; soda fountains. One soda fountain’d close. Another soon reopened. The family business eventually moved a few streets down – off the main street – after hard times. I went into that triangular space a few years back. They were selling – appropriately – vintage furniture.
Our origins credit iron and steel production.
By the nineties, most Phoenixville storefronts were abandoned.
Town colors were gray and grayer, except if you were a fan of high school baseball – in which case you wore purple with pride.
I saw a very different Phoenixville than my father. It embodied my own internal dystopia, another thing I’d have to overcome if I wanted to make something of myself.
First chance I had, I did leave town. It came in the form of a letter of admission to a place more people may have heard of than Phoenix, Arizona. One word: Harvard.
Harvard exists in a lesser known community (as vibrant and equally full of schooling) – Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was everything I’d hoped to inhabit: eclectic, diverse, energetic, intellectual, dressed in indie books, vintage fashion, bustling cafes by day and novel bars by night.
I said I’d never move back home.
Then, life happens. And love clarifies where we belong rather than a place in which to come of age.
Here I am.
I fell in love with Phoenixville, this time around. Or maybe it was my original imprint of love. Maybe the way my dad had painted a vision, and I recalled in heart, Phoenixville – this go around – seemed to heal both personal and community loss via transformation as an artist’s haven.
“It’s bohemian balmy,” a classy friend, passing through, once referred to my beloved Artisan’s Cafe.
Phoenixville. One word.
Forty-five minutes west of Philly, minutes beyond the Main Line, and minutes enough to be all I’d hoped to raise a family: eclectic, diverse, energetic, intellectual, dressed in indie books, vintage fashion, bustling cafes by day and novel bars by night.
This is my town.
You will rise
You’ll return
The phoenix from the flame
You will learn
You will rise
You’ll return
Being what you are
There is no other Troy
For you to burnTroy, Sinead O’Connor
I had a dream last night. An explosion set fire to buildings starting down around Bluebird Distilling, and I was unsure if the bookstore – a few blocks up, would be spared.
For me, the businesses that shot me out of bed, concerned for and motivated to write this post, are precious to me; like high schoolers might have felt about Nathan Honig’s soda fountain in the ’50s. I’ll never get to set foot inside his creation, but walking among the establishments at the corner of Prospect and Gay, I feel his presence, still.
I feel his presence, here, and I better understand how and what I value. Acknowledged roots generate creative ideas.
My engagement with Phoenixville – now – however, involves deliberate, independent thought:
The Farmers Market, with its family-friendly hospitality and easiest access to kale that does not require salad dressing drench.
Reads & Co, indie enough to house favorite books – and even my own. After our visits, my daughter begs to return, especially to resume her flight inside her reading rocket ship.
Nectar Yoga Studio, where my gritty guru – Kate Goodyear – (conveniently, also, my favorite muscle toning diva) – operates one of the most soulful places on Earth.
Refinery, with fashion sense way out of my league, except for the fact that the owner makes everyone feel like someone special and seen.
Vecchia, ah – sweet Neapolitan-style pizza, or vvvrrreeal thing, as Nathan Honig’s Czech accent would’ve revealed. Pizza by this creator and owner – Frank Nattle – is one of the best things to come from the local high school baseball team legacy (if you ask me).
Soltane whipped foam, in the shape of a heart, atop both my daughter’s hot cocoa and my latte. We drink our beverages and share an owl cookie after our monthly jaunt to the library.
Steel City Coffeehouse yes, my original jaunt into town, as a bohemian-wanna-be-artist-teen, and one of the original and strongest offerings to creatives drawn to authentic music and coffee. It’s also hosted some of my favorite off-beat artists over the years, including Jeffrey Gaines and Kevin Manning. The current owners continue to blossom this wildflower.
Then, of course, pragmatically speaking – there’s the local bank – Phoenix Federal, where my immigrant, refugee grandparents could set-up an account for me when I was a toddler. I bank there today, after trying out bigger brands, coming home to honest, reliable, and friendly.
Along the canals, bar crawling for my partner’s birthday, and shopping with a complimentary champagne for holiday treasures…
I have wandered, fulfilled.
I have wandered along these streets. I have wandered much further.
I think of the statement, now, “not all who wander are lost.” That does embody my spirit. Maybe it’s a Phoenixville thing – born of steel, transformed by art and food; wanderers. This moment in time, yet a blip, slight against this town’s eternal lifeline.
I developed a metaphor this week, for anxious clients. I described the tides of the current pandemic like bubbles of a bubble bath, moving from dense, fresh spigot then spreading out – before evaporating. For now, we sit in the bath. We aim to protect what is most sacred: our flesh. We reaffirm priorities. We pause. But, as bubbles dissipate, as they have in eastern parts of the world, so will we be fortunate to move forward, once again…
When it is time, move along the streets of Phoenixville. Watch us rise, once again, like our patron saint.
In the comments section or your own upcoming creative endeavors, I invite celebrations of home. Celebrate the shops, shopkeepers, vibes, and originality that makes your home and YOU, the best you can be. Keep their spirit alive now, and get ready to boogie with them, again, soon.
Creative introverts have long known the secret expanse that is our own imagination. Mix in the flexible problem solving of a mindful artist, and voila – you have a well built homebound machine.
That power combo fuels something (approximate, perhaps, in memory) that I recall Louisa May Alcott teaching me in her Little Women – “destitution is the mother of invention…”
Join me, explore ordinary household items that could be transformed into an extraordinary universe for you and your little ones, while social distancing.
Please share your ideas in the comments so that my daughter and I, and many others -could explore, as well. Social distancing=Isolation? eh, nah – it’s the new Radical Interconnectedness.
Here is my recent adventure with my daughter:
Reframe Your Artistry 