I examine the definition of art like it is a single object. I turn it over, examine the underside, shake it and hold it up to the light. I can't really define what I do now as art. I stitch, I craft, essentially I play with string. I don't create the designs I embrodier or cross stich, I merely follow the diagrams and copy the image on the package. Is that art? Is a painter that copies other painters and artist? I am skilled with a needle, could I become a master at the craft?
Years ago a young neighbor and her friends were drawing with chalk on our cul de sac. The chalk was vivid against the new blacktop. They covered the entire semi circle with words and flowers and a hopscotch grid. I used to park in the curve. The drew all around my car and scribed "Girl Kar". They instructed everyone who passed "not to walk on the art". Remarkable. I never asked myself if the chalk drawings were art. I new it implicitly. I suppose its the game of judging others compassionately and myself stringently.
I think I have let my world become too small. My conception of the artistic needs adjustment. My definition of "art" has become too aloof. I need to pull my imagination down off the shelf and use it. I want to run after inspiration rather that wait for it to casually stop by.
No comments:
Post a Comment