Sitting at the kitchen table, I scoured the toy catalogues
adding little stars to everything I wanted my mom to buy. My Christmas list always
had the same theme: I want to make things. Craft kit upon craft kit would get
little stars. Potholder loom? Made roughly 100 different potholders that nobody
wanted or used. Wood burning kit? Are
you kidding? I still have that. Bead loom? Check. Papermaking kit? Of course.
As a child I wanted to do one thing: create.
The strong urge towards creativity lasted all the way
through high school. Even as a surly jaded teenager, I retained a childhood
sense of wonder where art was concerned. Back them my medium was Walmart oil
paint thinned with my mom’s vegetable oil (because it was cheaper). I had no
tutorials, books, or guides. Just a creative urge and the local Walmart.
Then I stopped. I’m not sure when I stopped. Maybe moving
into a dorm where I no longer had my own space was the death blow to my
creativity. Could’ve been society’s instruction to “Grow up and do something
practical with your life.” But at some point, between 18 and 22, I stopped
painting. My paint tubes dried hidden on the top shelf of my closet, forgotten
in my new-found adulthood.
I didn’t stop because I didn’t enjoy painting. I stopped
because I wasn’t good enough to make money and that was the guiding light of being
an adult.
At 36 I decided I needed to rediscover my creativity, saw an
advertisement for Let’s Make Art and joined a watercolor subscription box. Back
in my youth I associated watercolor with cheap dollar store palettes and
plastic bristle brushes that never cooperated. I wasn’t looking to pick up
watercolor. But that was what they had, and I wanted to establish a routine and
a monthly subscription box seemed like the best approach. The unfamiliar medium
wasn’t going to stop me.
Liquid watercolors are a dream. Not that I understood how to
use them when they arrived on my doorstep. Or the brushes I bought. Or anything
else. Terms like blooms and bleeding were thrown at me and we were talking
flowers or ER trips.
But I was creating. Yes someone (the lovely Sarah Cray) walked
me through each step. But I held the brush and the feeling was glorious, a
connection with young-Cassi previously lost to the ages. This was not the sad
palettes of my youth, but a beautiful and forgiving exploration of color and
line.
Still, I’m a little sad to think of all the years I lost. Fourteen
years where I could have been creative, honed my skills and discover my
artistic vision. Because I didn’t think I was good enough. Now I believe “good
enough” is a lie. It implies the reason to create is the final product. But the
goal should be the act itself: creating beauty in a world that’s often
overwhelmingly dark. And I am good enough to do that. The beauty I create adds,
imperfections and all, rather than detracting from the world. In small little
ways it improves the world, through my growing creativity and peace but also
the heartfelt cards and gifts I’ve made for those I love. Making art is doing
good.
Let that be enough.
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