Anne LaMott tells me it is time to plop down into this new promise to myself; the promise that I am going to get serious now about the art – “the art that longs to be created using your hands, your heart, your spirit, and your kitchen table.” She tells me that all creative work is a debt of honor. You have to do it as a radical act. Because if you leave it too long your curiosity and creative muscles will atrophy. I am at that edge where I know it is almost too late, and I am terrified.
For most of my adult life I fought for this, this right to live creatively. But as Anne also says, “life is very life-y…” and everything and everyone else took precedent. I erroneously thought that all I wanted was a studio space. A studio space. I cannot tell you how many homes I have lived in. Let’s just say dozens. The average American moves every seven years; for decades I moved almost yearly. In every house I looked for a place to make a studio. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to make and keep a boundary around my creativity. Because I also wanted a happy family life. Anne says that no one in your family wants you to be creative. No one wants to hear about it. I wish I’d known. I was confused when they weren’t all supportive. When they were sitting in my tiny studio closet when I thought they weren’t home and that I could finally sneak away for some quiet alone time…I didn’t know that living a creative life was antithetical to having a happy family and a happy household. I don’t know how I could have been so naive for so long, but I didn’t know.
Is creativity such an indulgence? It is if your family is unhealthy. They need you. I was needed. Really, really needed. And as I now know in hindsight, I couldn’t save any of them. Not a one. But certainly not for lack of trying.
A Painterly Home 