Every Christmas Eve growing up, my father would surprise my sister and I with a brand new pack of crayons and a fresh coloring book. To me, this epitomized the spirit of the holiday season.
I would excitedly (but oh-so-carefully) dive into that pack of crayons and grace the pages of my new coloring book, with growing anticipation of what might be under the tree the next day.
Year after year, I asked Santa for the same: Art kits.
From batik painting to macrame starters; latch-hook rugs to pot holder looms; Dip-A-Flower kits to love beads (this was the '60s and '70s, remember), I had them all. Oh — and I can't forget gravel art — a kit where I glued tiny gravel stones to a board to form a peacock.
(My poor mother. She had to find places to display all of this handiwork...)
Despite my Christmas list looking nearly the same every year, I never tired of it. I loved the exploratory nature of each kit and project within; how each one used different materials and gave me ways to creatively approach art that I wouldn't otherwise have thought of.
Fast forward to high school, where I was incredibly fortunate to be in one of the best art programs in the country, under the guidance of the masterful Dick Trick.
It was there that the debate began — craft vs. art?
Even though I still took pleasure in things like knitting — at the time, decidedly a craft in the minds of my peers and I — I had made up my mind then and there that I would be an artist. I would be a painter. My work would be serious; sophisticated; skillful.
My art education in high school pushed me in ways I cannot express proper gratitude for.
And, yet...the seriousness; the sophistication it instilled in me both subconsciously and very unintentionally transpired into not allowing myself to dabble with things that might not directly align with my path to becoming a painter; a "true" artist.
I failed to see that I wasn't actually delineating between a craft and art. What I can see now is that I was drawing a line between exploration/play and sophistication/skill.
An unnecessary line.
This line has, unfortunately, limited my creativity. Even as I hone my skills and become a more experienced painter, every once in a while that Christmas Eve Cindy — the one full of excitement; anticipation; imagination — comes back to visit me, asking me this:
How can I bring the freedom of childhood exploration to my art? How can I approach it with a renewed sense of wonder? How can I experiment, and bring more play into my days?
Just while writing this, I created a project for myself: This week, I'll bring an entire painting to life without using a brush. I'll use only sticks and natural materials I can find outdoors.
Just as I dreamt up this idea, I felt that flutter again. The joy that comes with rediscovering wonder; the excitement that comes with allowing myself to play.
If I can give myself time each day and week to play; to rebel with paints, shapes, light, materials, and more, I know I can push myself beyond the limitations I've set for myself. I know I can redefine what an artist is, in my own mind. I know I can find more of who I am inside.
It makes me wonder: What lines have you drawn for yourself — and how can you erase them to let yourself play? Not just now, in this holiday season where nostalgia amplifies; but each and every day and week?
Because what is art without wonder? And what is life without excitement?
P.S. As it turns out, this is a lesson I teach myself over and over again in adulthood: That childlike exploration is the path and play tends to reveal magnificent answers.