For the Love of Art
“I’m thinking about signing up for a writing workshop.” I say hesitantly to my husband one night.
Actually, my mind is pretty made up. I’m signing up, but I mention it to my husband because well, it’s not cheap. And although I know I don’t need permission from him, nor would my husband ever expect me to “ask” him if I could do it, I find it difficult to go through with such an investment. I’m finding it difficult to invest in myself.
“Oh, really? That’s cool. What’s it all about?” He questions me, interested.
I explain the workshop, the expense, the time commitment. There will be weekly reading and writing assignments, with the expectation that we submit an essay, or part of an essay each week to be critiqued by our peers and instructors. We are also expected to give feedback on others' work.
This is something I’ve been wanting to do for awhile and with baby #3 on the way, it seems like the right time to do it. I’m past the first trimester and the constant, debilitating nausea and exhaustion, but not yet in the throes of the newborn days—the constant nursing and pumping and lack of sleep. It’s now or, not for a long time, I’ve reasoned with myself.
My sweet, wonderful husband is nothing but encouraging, as I knew he would be. He has always supported me in everything I’ve ever done and writing, this little hobby of mine, is no different.
***
“Look what I made, mommy!” My 4 year old son Luca, exclaims excitedly. In his little hands, he proudly holds up what he says is a school bus with kids in it. I see the outline of a vehicle, drawn in yellow, with probably two dozen smiley faces in every color of the rainbow neatly contained inside the “bus.”
“Wow, buddy! I love it! You are so creative!” I gush. Luca smiles and says “yeah,” without a hint of embarrassment or modesty. He doesn’t brush off my compliment. He just looks down at what he created and smiles, proud of his hard work.
“Daddy is really going to like this.” He says confidently, as he hangs his picture on the refrigerator with the brightly colored mismatched alphabet magnets.
***
I squeeze my eyes shut as the first beep beep beeps! of my alarm goes off. I reach over and tap the snooze button with my finger without opening my eyes. I hit the snooze button two more times before I force myself out of bed. At 28 weeks pregnant, and after a night of tossing and turning and getting up multiple times to go to the bathroom or to take a couple of Tums, getting up at 5:15 am is getting harder and harder to do.
We are in week 8 of the writing workshop I signed up for months ago and I set my alarm mostly every morning to get in a good chunk of reading and writing and studying these two things, before my kids get up. It’s become one of my favorite parts of the day. Sometimes, the words pour out of me and I am excited to see what comes of the 1,500 words I just frantically typed up.
But sometimes, the words stay stuck in my head. I can’t figure out a way to say them eloquently. I doubt myself and I often find myself thinking why am I bothering? It’s just a little hobby after all, is it really worth the time and money I’m putting into it?
***
“We need to do something about the art project situation,” I bring up to my husband one night after dinner. He smiles with amusement.
Luca has recently become quite passionate about creating. Coloring, drawing, cutting, and pasting—his new favorite way to spend his time. All his projects get taped up on our walls, the kitchen backsplash, and the refrigerator. The small string of twine and clothespins I hung up in the playroom years ago to display art projects simply isn’t cutting it anymore. I love that he loves to create, but I also love being able to open my refrigerator without a dozen or more art projects falling to the ground every time I do so.
My solution? I dream up a project I have come to call The Art Board. I describe my vision to my husband, and he executes it perfectly.
It’s an enormous piece of sheet metal, housed inside a DIY wood frame. There’s a little shelf at the top to contain the various little wooden animals and cars Luca paints on occasion. The rest of the board is for him to display his many works of art. The pictures he tears out of his coloring books, the random scrap pieces of paper he cuts up and calls “leaves, and dozens of sketches of cars, faces, forest scenes, and my very favorite— a “blueberry tree,” all get taped to the art board or hung up with magnets.
Luca can see his art board from the top bunk of his brand new bunk bed. And I hope that when he wakes up every morning and looks over at everything he has created, he sees the value of art in his life. I hope he thinks, wow I made all of that.
***
Most of what I write gets published on my personal blog. It’s the place where most of my writing lives, much like Luca’s art board. Occasionally, I will submit it somewhere, hoping to have it published. Having something published by someone else, and being paid for it, is validating. It’s as if they are saying, “This is good. YOU are a good writer.”
Writing has become an outlet for me during hard seasons, and a way of memory keeping during this season of motherhood. I’ve written my way through miscarriages, unmet expectations about what motherhood would be like, and a really challenging and unexpected diagnosis in my son. I’ve also been able to capture our family’s stories in a way that photos and videos cannot do justice to, and I hope that years from now, they serve as a reminder of this current season of motherhood, and all the beautiful, hard, and hilarious moments that I never want to forget.
But in a world where we are often pressured to push our passions and hobbies to the wayside in favor of more money, more hustle, and more productivity, this little hobby of mine can sometimes feel like I’m wasting my time.
I don’t know what will come of all the writing I’ve done these past few months. I have a folder on my Google Drive account housing a dozen or more essays, thousands and thousands of words. Many have been critiqued by women whose work I have been lucky enough to read and study these last couple months. I whole-heartedly believe that I am a better writer than I was when I started this workshop.
And maybe even more than that, I’ve experienced first hand how doing something I love, and making it a priority, adds something important to my life. My cup feels full. In a couple weeks I will walk away from this workshop with a myriad of different essays and ideas and words that are not quite perfect or fully formed yet. Writing to put out into the world someday, if I choose to do so.
***
I’m still wrapped up in bed, typing furiously on my laptop, all too aware of the soft “deadline” I have to turn in this week’s essay when I hear Luca’s sound machine turn off, signaling that he is allowed to get out of bed for the day. It’s early, but I hear Luca creep out of his room, walk quietly down the hall, and then down the stairs. I hear the kitchen cabinet containing all our art supplies open. Small bins of crayons and markers and kid scissors are set on the counter. I hear the swish of papers as Luca flips through his sketchbooks.
It’s barely 7 o’ clock in the morning and just as I do almost every single morning, my son gets right to work, creating. Not for financial compensation, or because he wants the world to tell him how good it is. But simply because he loves it.
