Models decide to become chanteuses on the way to the first ladyship of France. Actors decide that they are clearly cut out for political roles, and politicians appear in Saturday Night Live skits.
Despite the reputation of being a little “out there,” most writers don’t fancy themselves musicians, nor do artists often delude themselves that they will easily master the steps, fluidity, and muscle strength necessary for ballet. (Zelda Fitzgerald is an exception, and she was, clinically speaking, “out there.”) Most people, however, who are firmly dedicated to one form of artistic expression appreciate other forms, and may dabble. Although I’ve been writing since I was six, I enjoy drawing and playing the piano. Recognition that I am a poor drawer and pianist in no way diminishes my enjoyment of these activities.
My recently inspired foray into acrylic painting has led me to three insights. The first is that, realistically, I will never be a proficient painter. I lack the underlying drawing ability, its technique and its vision, which is a necessary basis for painting. I lack the training and mentorship, and it is unlikely that I’ll chose paths that will lead to immersion in the world of painting.
The second insight is that this foray allows me to appreciate on new levels precisely what painting entails, and a better sense of what I’m seeing when I look at others’ paintings. I see what goes right, because I now know first-hand how easy it is for things to go wrong in translating ideas and visions into form, color, line and texture.
The third insight is into myself. For inexplicable reasons, the act of painting fills me with joy. As a fairly perfectionistic person, I’m accustomed to dispatching into the world thoughts and ideas, written or verbal, which state exactly what I intend. I have the linguistic tools available to create poems, letters, emails, agendas, or dissertations to express precisely what I intend to express. With painting, that just isn’t going to happen! My reaction is not one of frustration, but of intense freedom. I can simply PAINT, reveling in the colors, the smells, and the motion of my hand as it makes a curve. Paintings now exist in the world that did not exist before I created them. Opinions in my house imply that the world would be just fine without these paintings, but I disagree; their creation brings me joy; their existence brings me delight. It’s a win-win situation.
Have you, as an artist, made forays into other areas of the art world, and what were your experiences?
