Ball smashing

Every day my wee-one asks to do an art project.  Today, a rainy frigid sort of day, was the perfect time for a 'project' that took a bit more effort.  So, upon consulting one of my Pintrest boards, I found it.  We were gonna smash some balls.

Goods required: cotton balls, flour, water and food coloring.  Check, check, check and check.                    

                    

       

                     

 


Basically, you mix equal parts flour and water, add food coloring to your liking and douse a cotton ball in the mixture.  The you bake them at 300 degrees for 45 minutes until they are hard.  Then....you smash them.  Crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle.

It was fun for a minute.  They were kinda hard to smash and I was reminded that I did get this recipe/idea from a site that was promoting ways to keep your boy-child amused.  My girl-child isn't so interested in smashing stuff.

She is interested in other things....

We still smashed all those suckers.  Oh, the destruction, oh the humanity!

Artist?

I got to hang with an old friend (an oldie, but a goodie) for a bit yesterday.  He came by to purchase a piece of my art and it just so happened to be lunch time, so he stayed and chatted.

It was through chatting that I got a bit closer to the heart of why I'm so uncomfortable putting a price tag on my work.  Or even calling the paintings I do, "my work" for that matter.

We all identify with certain labels in our life.  I, for example, call myself a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, cook, vegan, runner, hiker, writer, reader...I think you get the idea.  I feel like I can own those labels, rock them, if you will.

I see a person who sells their art and has their art on display as an artist.  Up until a week ago I did neither of those things.  So clearly, I wasn't an artist.  I kept my creations in the high shelf of my closet, not entirely sure why I was amassing them but sure that I wanted to continue making yet another.  A few weeks ago I was pretty proud of a painting I had done, I posted it on facebook (eek!) and the compliments came rolling in.  Not only that, but talk of selling the dang thing were swirling and I was a bit in shock.

Imaginary conversations like, "Oh, no-no-no-no-no.  You don't understand, I not an artist" where the person would reply, "Oh, I see.  Thank you for telling me!  I'll be on my way" would happen and I'd be relieved that I hadn't perpetrated a fraud on some poor confused soul.

As a result of my conversation yesterday, I realized that it's not up to me what art is to someone else.  Nothing special has to happen to a person for them to be an artist.  The space I put up between myself and "artists" is just that- an empty, meaningless (except I gave it meaning) space.

Consider that space gone.

Artists don't get dressed up to go to work....do they?

Up, up and away

Today I sent off two pieces of art work, and I'm receiving money for them!  This is a super exciting prospect for me, what if I could do this on the regular?

One of the pieces came together at a friend's kitchen table during one of our weekly crafty-time get togethers.  I never considered I would be offered cash for it.  I'm pretty honored and, well, flabbergasted really.

I have a complex where I see how much awesomer everyone else's art is and therefore that makes mine worthless.  It's obviously not true, and that's a really neat possibility for me.  Here are the pieces I sold, it was sorta weird to send them away from me, knowing I'd never see them again.  But I'm resolved that most of the money I can make selling art will go into Rosie's college fund and our retirement, so the sting is lessened.