Telling Stories

Last week, a grandmother and her young grandson visited my studio. They stayed longer than most visitors, but I attribute that less to the art on my walls and more to the outdoor triple-digit heat index. The air conditioner in my studio might be ancient, but it works. While the outdoors was steam-roastin', I was chillin' at a delightful seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.

That's only half true. Yes, the temperature in my studio was preferable to Mother Nature's blast furnace, but the grandmother was an artist herself, and the grandson enjoyed drawing monsters. We found plenty to chat about. That being said, I did sense some disappointment when the boy learned that monsters aren't in my oeuvre.

At some point in the conversation, the grandmother looked around at the different works in my studio and said, "You're still figuring out who you are as an artist."

Given the disparate collection of work in my studio, I can understand why someone might arrive at that conclusion. I was ready to fall back into my usual self-deprecating schtick, but I caught myself and said, "I used to think that. But the truth is, when I'm creating something, what I'm really trying to do is tell a story that can't be told with words. I need to choose the right tools to tell that story. Sometimes it's a collection of family photos. Sometimes it's beeswax and cheesecloth. And I'm fine with that."

Impressed with my response, she told her grandson to remember what I'd said. I doubt he will. It's something he'll have to discover on his own.

I think that, as artists, when we feel stuck or uncertain, we would do well to step back for a moment and appreciate the helicopter view. When I look at the progression of my work over the past three years, I can see that every shift in tool or technique is less a story in its own right and more a chapter in a larger one.

Using family photos of uncles and aunts I never knew, building vessels that looked like nests with sails, incorporating tiny baskets and weaving into the work, and now my obsession with building tiny houses from archival board and beeswax—it all makes sense. I spent my life trying to find the place where I belonged. I spent years looking for a place of safe shelter. I could have changed my name to Dorothy for all the time I spent searching for home.

But now I know where I belong. I know I have safe shelter. I know I have a home.

And so it's time to tell the story.