I Am a Maker {guest post}

By Debby Hudson | Twitter: @debby_hudson

I don’t like fitting rooms. Some places try to look a little fancier than the slate-gray-institutional-look cubicles at Target. At White House Black Market, heavy curtains hang between you and the salesperson. Victoria’s Secret has solid black doors helping you feel more private trying on things you know weren’t made for your body.

What I really don’t like is arming myself with various sizes, because who knows how the new cut of jeans will fit this time. (That’s code for how much weight have I really gained.) The whole experience leaves me feeling like I’m the one who doesn’t fit.

But, we have to wear clothes (thank you Adam and Eve … I mean, really, thank you!) and the perfect fit jeans you bought at the Gap last year have been discontinued. And it’s back to the fitting room.

I’ve been trying some different things on the past few years. I saw a few things I thought would fit. I tried writing. I joined a few groups, took a course or two and started learning the language. I worked up the courage to submit to a few sites and got rejections and acceptances, both of which made me feel like a “writer.” But the fit wasn’t one I was going to wear long term.

Next I tried on photography. Again, I took a few classes, joined a group or two and shot, deleted, shot, deleted. I grew my following on Instagram and sold a handful of photos through Shutterstock. This fit is closer to being true. Perhaps because it’s coming more natural to me. It’s helping me discover more about the creative part of me. Casual and fancy are both good fits with this lens.

I have always been a maker. You might even say it’s in my DNA coming from a line of makers.

My paternal granny made tiny Barbie dresses with crocheted purses for them. I was the delighted recipient of her skills.

Mama tried her hand at ceramics, tole painting, sewing, knitting and a few more things along the way. She was my biggest encourager nudging me to go further with my art.

In her family the women are particularly creative with sewing, decorating, painting and even upholstery. Yes, we are makers. Our hands need to be busy with needle and thread or brushes and paint. It’s an ingrained part of who we are.

When our children started school I took some of the things I made to local shops to sell. Some were sold on consignment and others bought outright at a margin allowing them to make their profit.

I learned what did and didn’t fit for me:

Making = a good fit

Selling = never the right size

Times have changed. Craft shows that were plentiful at the time have shrunk in size and variety. Places like Hobby Lobby sell items that can be sold at low cost.

The opposite is true of sewing. Why spend the money on fabric and the time involved when you can buy the dress cheaper at Target?

For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making.

I’ve dipped my toes in selling again. The internet makes it easier. It’s like a fancy changing room where you can hide behind the sleek black door while someone you’ll never see scrutinizes your work.

While friends have been encouraging me to sell, it’s still not easy. Increased quality of phone cameras has made everyone a photographer. Who needs to buy someone else’s work?

Even though the internet seems to have made it simple for an artist to sell their work the result is a saturated market. How does anyone get their work seen? Now we have to be makers, salespeople and marketers.

Seduced by the ease of uploading photographs, I submitted a few to Shutterstock. They were accepted and after a few weeks I had my first sale. Twenty-five cents! Reality and humility often go hand in hand.

We are facing a big change in our life next year. We are retiring and I already have visions for the Florida room in our retirement home. My mind’s eye pictures shelves in one corner holding a variety of props for my still life photography. Windows on three sides will bathe the room in light for painting and shooting stills. Perhaps an area in front of the white-painted brick fireplace to set up a revolving vignette. I envision the serenity that comes with creating, even in creating the space itself.

Maybe this new place and new chapter will lead toward more risks. Maybe I’ll try on new things in the fitting room that’s called retirement. Maybe I’ll become friends with that fitting room.

Today there are a lot of maybes. What is certain is that I’m a maker as much as I’m a wife, mama, MeMe, sister and friend. While I’m creating images on the screen and paintings in my tablets, I most want to make a place for peace in grace.

*All but title image are by Debby and are used by permission!

About Debby:

My husband and I partner in ministry as ordained ministers in The Salvation Army. We’ve been involved with the recovery community for 14 years and are Administrators of a six-month residential program for men. Through our work in this area, we see hope shared on a daily basis. We are witnesses to God’s amazing grace. When I’m not being a surrogate mom to these men, I enjoy many artistic endeavors and share a lot of them on my Facebook page. Come find me on Twitter at  @debby_hudson and Facebook at @debbyhudsoncreative. Check out Debby’s photography here and here.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

I Am a Maker. "For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making." #creativity #making #creatives #artists #art #photography #artistsreflections

Keep Showing Up {guest post}

By Marvia Davidson | Instagram

You will find by doing. Doing brings revelation and clarity. In the discovery of gifts, I have found it to be challenging to own the place of my full purpose as a creative spirit. You see, I don’t simply do one thing in my creative practices. I engage in many creative things, but I’ve learned to give myself grace to play, grow, and discover what art forms I enjoy.

When I think of the discovery of gifts, I think of exploration and permission.

Maybe these aren’t always easy for us to give ourselves, but they are a much needed part of the process of finding our creative voice, and it enhances the gifts we bring. Sometimes those insights lead to deeper revelation of who we are and what we’re here for, and they can be surprising too.

I find more of my creative voice by showing up and doing the work of discovery – the practice of trying out ideas and techniques. I do this most frequently in writing because I’ve enjoyed writing and sharing ideas for many years.

When it came to any kind of art, I didn’t think I could do it. It looked hard, tedious, and nearly impossible. I doubted I would be able to draw, to create, or paint. I’ll tell you a secret to overcoming my self doubt, and it may sound odd, but social media has been an underestimated source of creative, guiding inspiration for me. I don’t mean to sound woo.

I mean that an app like Instagram has become a mini art school for me, a way to see how art is expressed in myriad forms. It has become an abundant place to learn, search, explore, and share my art, Yes! I said my art because I now call myself and artist. It is art I did not know I could do, but finding other creatives on Instagram has been encouraging for me. I have witnessed people growing in their process, and the more they share the more I find possibility beating in my own heart.

I enjoy making mixed media art and hand lettering, specifically brush lettering. These two art forms were daunting to me because I would peruse specialized magazines, books, or websites of perfectly styled and photographed pieces, but Instagram is full of people who share their behind the scenes process and how they do what they do despite their imperfections.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t afraid to experiment with these new gifts. Along the way, I realized these two art forms could serve as a way for me to express my purpose, values, and desire to see people encouraged through the tough circumstances of life. I also learned to accept I am an artist in my own unique way, and it is okay for me to walk out what it means to be one.

Because my art practices require time and patience, they have been a wonderful way for me to fight back against imposter syndrome and self doubt.

The discovery of color, painting, and pens gliding across blank paper encouraged me to develop my skills, and I’ve been having fun ever since. I wanted sustainable practices which could also serve as a soul care practice, and they are. Like quilting, I find the process of painting and hand lettering to be therapeutic and meditative. In a way, they allow me to infuse my work with focused attention to the message I want to convey.

I believe when we accept the nuances of who we truly are, we become more ourselves and we learn to live abundantly. We learn to give ourselves and one another room to be. We find there is room for us at the table, and the only thing that might be holding us back is our own limiting belief.

Engaging fellow artisans reminds me how much community can matter when we’re trying something new. Sharing our struggles, mistakes, and failures gives us room to refine our creative voices and the processes we use. When I see another artist sharing this way, it empowers me to take more bold steps in my own art because I know that discovery comes through the process of doing.

The more I do the artsy things, the more I am settled in who I am and the creative expression of the Divine in me. The challenge no longer keeps me from growing. I choose to show up. Every time I do, I let loose and play, allowing my heart, mind, and body to express with colors and words on canvas or page.

I choose to invest in myself and the materials I need to express my creative soul. This is an act of self love. To give one’s self grace to discover one’s gifts, is to love one’s self well, and I believe this opens a door for us to learn to love others well too.

I encourage you to pause and reflect on those creative inklings tumbling around your heart, and follow the curiosity of their unfolding beauty.

About Marvia:

Marvia is a Texas writer/creative soul who enjoys writing, making art, laughing loudly, baking, dancing ridiculously because it’s fun, and smashing lies that keep people from living whole. Join her at marviadavidson.com. You can also follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MarviaDavidson and on Facebook at facebook.com/marviawrites.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

Why I Paint African Faces {guest post}

By Beth Watkins | Twitter: @iambethwatkins

I’ve always been a maker. I can’t help myself. I’m an extremely tactile person. I love doing things with my hands and if I see something I think I could make myself, I absolutely want to teach myself how to do it.

I sold homemade jewelry on the playground in 4th grade, and again in high school. I carried around no less than 4 notebooks and 50 pens from the 5th to the 10th grade – always on the ready to doodle, draw, and write about my feelings in full color. I got my first set of real paints when I was 11, set up my studio in the basement, and read books about impressionism before bed. I won my first award for a painting when I was 12 and sold my first acrylic painting when I was 16. I was always collecting supplies, making things out of what I could find, and went through a really intense phase of dyeing, appliqueing, and painting on my clothes.

I thought I would apply to art school, but then decided God wanted me in Africa instead. I took my acrylic paints with me but turns out when you live in a desert the paint dries a lot faster and I couldn’t work with it the same way. So I made jewelry with beads and electric wire. I took bottle caps and wire and sat with street boys and we made cars, snakes, and rickshaw sculptures. When I went home I’d draw pictures of these boys, of my desert home, crosshatching their faces, the mosques, the ladies in their colorful tobes.

A few years later I sat with former street girls at a center in South Sudan and we made bead looms out of cardboard and they learned to weave necklaces and bracelets, attaching them to closures made from inner tube. They loved it.

We’d sit for hours and hours, wondering where the time went – marveling at how quiet the center was now that hands were occupied and fights broke out less. The older girls would teach the younger ones, and we sold their wares. By doing so the girls stopped selling their bodies. They made their own intricate designs, invented their own techniques, and went from students to teachers.

Again, in the evenings, I’d sketch their faces as I wrote their stories in my journal, not sure how so much beauty and so much pain could coincide together.

I’m back in the US now – taking my making with me. I’ve learned to make shoes, how to can tomatoes and pickles (the composing of a delicious meal being as much creation as a painting – just one that nourishes us in different ways) and make standing planters and raised garden beds out of burlap sacks, scrap bricks, and anything else I can find.

I’m still painting portraits – our house is filled with colorful paintings of African faces. Faces of people I’ve known, loved, and had to leave. As I paint them I remember, I pray. They are tributes in a way. Marks of seasons now over. They fade into the background now, more or less, but sometimes I stop and I remember. Faces of people I love, marking dreams lost, grief, the changing of things with time.

My husband and I were apart the last three months of our engagement. He was still in South Sudan and I was in the US getting counseling and planning our wedding. I painted a 3’x3’ portrait of our faces from a picture taken the night we got engaged. I was worried for him, still in a tumultuous place, a country at war. I couldn’t hug him, touch him, see in his eyes if he was ok or not, so I painted him. I got to scrutinize each hair, each freckle, the curve of his smile and render it with my own hand. It was deeply meaningful to paint, forming his face on a canvas when he was so far away.

I make out of practicality sometimes, but mostly joy. And I think it is in this joy we ourselves have been made.

I always did and I still do get a little flutter when I finish a picture or project. Whether it’s shoes for a friend, an ambitious baking project, an illustration for a freelance project, or another portrait on our ever-crowded walls, I get the flutter because while I’m in the process I’m never always sure that finishing will come.

Most of what I make isn’t for day-to-day use. Much of it sits tucked away. It’s the making that fills my soul. An idea that is seen through until the end. Getting surprised again and again that some of the things I make turn out nicely. All the better if it is something that sparks joy for someone I love.

Maybe that’s what the Creator feels about us too. I don’t think God gets surprised about what those Almighty hands are capable of, but God must experience something like pure joy in creation. Joy that begets joy. God creates us and not only do we find great joy in what else and who else has been created alongside, we take what we have and what we can find and we make art, gardens, jewelry and clothing, homes and poems, stews and cakes and we make and we make and we multiply joy as we create as God taught us how.

We are makers of beauty because we’ve been beautifully crafted.

 We are unique and flawed, becoming masters in our crafts while others master theirs. We make mistakes and we learn and we make as we have been made. We create as we have been created. In love, in pained labor, and the world is better because we keep making, because we’ve been made in the image, and part of that image is that of maker.

(all images by Beth Watkins)

About Beth:

Beth Watkins spent the last 6 years working in North and Sub-Saharan Africa with vulnerable populations. She is currently settling back in the US with her immigrant husband and writes about flailing awkwardly into neighbor-love at http://www.iambethwatkins.com and on Twitter: @iambethwatkins.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

Why I Paint African Faces, by Beth Watkins. (blog post) #art #artists #create #creativity #makers #createdtocreate #painters #inspirationforartists

 

When You Know You’re Not an Artist {guest post}

 

By Heather Caliri | Instagram: @heathercaliri

If I knew anything for certain when I was a child, it was that I was not the artist of the family—my older sister Katie was.

Looking at her work, I knew I’d never be as good as her. I wouldn’t even be in the same universe as her. Anyway, I had my own ‘talents’: school, and the performing arts, and generally being the favorite child. I didn’t need to do art.

That was her thing.

I felt nervous when I learned that for my ceramics class in high school, we had to keep a sketchbook. To my great surprise, I liked drawing.

I liked that with nothing but pencils, pens and my own imagination, I could transform a blank notebook into something indelibly, creatively, mine.

I took a few more art classes in high school, and then one more in college. In those classes, making art felt like caring for a mean-spirited cat. Sometimes, it would curl in my lap and keep me company, and sometimes it would turn around and try to claw my eyes out.

Once, I used some new watercolor pencils to craft swirls of color on a page, thrilled with the freedom of abstraction. When I showed my tender risk-taking to my high school art teacher, he told me I should look at another student’s abstractions, because they were much better. I felt like he’d sucker-punched me.

A drawing from high school.

Later that year, I started making faux album covers for a made-up band I called The Cheshire Cats. At first I felt proud of my work, but laterI felt dumb that I was playing around with words and fonts when my classmates were making real art.

And in a college drawing class, we were supposed to do gesture drawings of a bell pepper. When I glanced over at another student’s work, I saw a pepper. When I looked down at mine, I saw weird squiggles. My eyes filling with tears, I took my HB pencil and made a long gash down the middle of my newsprint.

Years later, thinking of that class, I made this.

All this to say: most of my formal art training served to make me feel terrible about myself, my work, my skill. It mostly taught me to compare what I did to all the other people around me.

It kept me from making things.

The other day, one of my friends saw my sketchbook and said you’re such a good artist. She also said that she was not.

This is the drawing she liked. Note: I copied the pattern from wallpaper, which is totally acceptable but always feels like cheating to me.

I wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her that all these words we use to judge our art—good, real, artist—they are MADE UP WORDS. They do not mean what they think we mean. They do not say anything useful.

I started making art more when my children were little. By then, I had been writing for a long time, and I’d learned that “talent” was a shell game. I bought my kids nice art supplies, and when they made things, I did too. I realized if “writers” are people who write, then “artists” are people who make art. I didn’t need permission to claim those names.

It’s amazing what reading a few craft books does for your skill level.

Making art still feels tender to me. Unlike with writing, which has felt mine for nearly twenty years, art feels a bit like using my left hand to cut a piece of paper. It’s awkward. I feel my lack of practice, especially when I draw.

Drawing this peony made me sweat.

I don’t care. Art making is not about skill, but about desire. The only question I want to ask about art is: do I want to make some? Do I have a picture in my mind I want to make real? Do I want to take a piece of discarded paper, or a recycled cereal box, and resurrect it into something beautiful?

Basket made of old sheets with papier mâché citrus. Note: the basket was supposed to be a rug. Oh, well.

I think many of us hold back from making things because we feel incompetent and think lack of skill is a problem. It makes me tremendously sad to think of all the joy that fear steals from us. It makes me angry to think of how we teach art, pitting one person’s joy against another.

Still: there’s a simple question for each of us to ask. Do we want to make something? If the answer is yes, it is brave and bold and beautiful to set aside our fear and try.

About Heather:

Heather Caliri is a writer and shy artist from San Diego who uses tiny, joyful yeses to free herself from anxiety. Tired of anxiety controlling your life? Try her mini-course, “Five Tiny Ideas for Managing Anxiety,” for free here.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

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