When it comes to art, I've always believed that those who can, do; those who can't, collect.
The first sign that I was meant to be among the latter came in grade school during a simple art project. It started with a piece of black construction paper and a straw, through which we were supposed to blow a dollop of watery white paint into a free-form design. I blew so hard that I fainted.
In middle school I suffered through "home ec" and the required sewing project: a pair of culottes where the leg openings turned out to be significantly different sizes. I was so frustrated that I threw the scissors on the new dining room table, taking a chunk out of the center.
Later I discovered the tranquility of the darkroom and the power of expression that came with composing and printing my own black and white photos. But math and science were never my best subjects and I got impatient with all the shutter speeds and apertures involved.
On it went into adulthood -- project after project taken up and abandoned, from stained glass to candle and lampshade making to creating stationery with bits of leaves and pine needles.
For a while, I kept a folder of project ideas collected from craft magazines. The results were uniformly clumsy.
Still, I remain a steadfast lover of art, especially the texture of textiles, the form of sculpture, the color of glass. Matilda, the plaster nude my husband made in art school, holds a place of honor in our foyer. His version of the leg lamp from "A Christmas Story" -- using his shed orthopedic cast and a casting of his foot -- is one of my favorite pieces.
Over the years I've come to accept that some of us are meant to be artists, others art appreciators. So I'm running out of wall space for the paintings and photos I've collected on our travels. And when friends sent us a willow basket with divided insert for serving boiled eggs, I shelled out $120 for six intricate and colorful Ukrainian Easter eggs to display in it instead.
Recently, though, I ran into someone who challenged my assumptions.
He can't draw, yet he's developed a following with his simple, stick-figure T-shirt designs. It's their childlike nature, in fact, that makes them so appealing.
It got me to thinking that maybe art should be about the process, not the result. While adulthood is busy drumming into us the need for everything we do to be perfect, we somehow lose the feeling that comes from creating.
Now I'm planning to revisit some of those old projects, come what may. As something I read somewhere goes: If you can't learn to do it well, learn to enjoy doing it badly.
Reach staff writer Marta Hepler Drahos at mdrahos@record-eagle.com.
Read more of Marta's columns at www.record-eagle.com/martadrahos
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