on containers and creativity

on containers and creativity

For the first time in a long time, I took a day off last week. Having been recently diagnosed with ADHD has me reevaluating my life in general, but mostly my habits. I love working, so my 7-day workweek never seemed like a problem, but thankfully I have children who like to spend time with me and help me see that some space in my life for relaxing (together) is necessary and enjoyable.

Ella and I have been watching how to watercolor videos by our favorite teacher on skillshare for months as a way to relax into nighttime yoga before bed. Whatever it was about mystical landscapes that inspired us to actually paint, I don't know. When Ella asks to do something, I do it. We have these beautiful supplies I've collected over the years because I always longed for high-quality materials when I was a kid. It might be a strange priority, but I have bought the best art supplies I could afford at every stage of my life. It's a pleasure just to look at them, but where to start using them has been elusive.

The instructor provided templates and presented a structured method for trying out the shapes together and then demonstrated choosing a color palette. I was excited to try the whole process. I don't usually plan out creative projects, unless they are for work. I always see the value in structure for work, but for freeform Sunday afternoons? Never. When I'm exploring non-work creativity I tend to wait to become inspired, immediately go for it, and then find myself either highly motivated to continue or deeply disappointed by my progress and give up. (That feels like a big confession.)

We planned to paint over the weekend, and I found myself holding onto that potential time together in my heart while I worked and ran around to drop her off to various activities and school. I almost think the anticipation made the actual time painting more enjoyable. We sat down together with our templates and sketchbooks and tested out different elements like a collage first, then played with different color combinations, and then chose an option to pursue from our sketches.

Maybe this is how people who go to art school are taught to try things and decide what to work on, but I didn't go to art school. I had never experienced such freedom inside a structured container before. It probably seems very obvious to most people, but we were so delighted with the whole process that it actually didn't matter to us what the final outcome would be. Of course we like each others' work better, but that's the way it goes with Ella and me.

I'm now looking for this container magic in every part of my life. My workspace needed some fresh energy, so I worked with Brigitte Flick to have a look in my physical space and try some experiments with intentional placement of furniture and lighting and organization. I'm still working through my homework there, but already it feels like a more supportive container for my work and creativity. I hope to show you what that looks like in real life soon. I highly recommend the entire experience.

I also reached out to a friend who is a photo stylist about how to make my workspace more true to my aesthetic for video and photography (and honestly, I long simply to work inside a beautiful environment because it's important to me, whether I'm on camera or not.)

I know what I like when I see it, but like the watercolor process I just talked about, I don't really know where to begin when it comes to making something new. My pattern and garment-making work has largely been about making the dreams and designs of other people a reality. I'm a problem-solver, not a designer. Thankfully, I am not afraid to ask for help.

I've always considered my ability to make things work a real gift. I didn't have access to nice tools and materials when I was growing up. My dad was a magician as a hobby (like actually a real magician who did magic shows), but also in our everyday life. He could MacGyver the muffler to the car with string and duct tape and chewing gum, or sheer force of will. He could simply look at something and know how to put it together (but definitely not explain it to anyone else). So, we never really made the choice to buy the actual tools for the job. I have that same gift. I absolutely make magic. Sure, partly it's inherited, but partly it's the result of a childhood spent simply not having the resources (funds, information, awareness) to know that it can be better to get the right tool and the right materials than it is to cobble something together.

There's a dark side to this gift, though. It shows up as an unwillingness to invest in the more appropriate or even safer option. A lack of awareness that it's possible to ask for help, even when we could potentially do it ourselves. This dark side is a stubborn kind of independence that denies ourselves the connection and intangible benefits that comes out of collaborating with a specialist or simply hiring others who love what they do. As someone who's had more stitches and tetanus shots because of inappropriate tools for the job at hand, I'm learning not to constantly “make do” out of stubbornness or ignorance on my part. Sometimes that bargain is too costly.

All that being said, there's elegance in the efficiency that can be found in making the most of what's on hand. I don't ever want to forget the sense of satisfaction and delight I feel when transforming leftover materials into something else, something beautiful. I firmly believe there's a difference between making-do because I'm stubborn and making magic sustainably, from materials we already have. Sometimes I wonder if certain fabric scraps aren't waiting around hoping to become something useful and appreciated? Giving gifts is a love language I speak fluently.

In a couple of weeks, I'll be teaching a workshop at Esther's Fabrics on Bainbridge Island where students will bring their scrap bins and spend a couple hours transforming what's inside into as many gifts as we can make in 3 hours. From reusable tea bags to journal covers, patchwork ribbon to roll-up art supply cases and tarot card pouches, we will pour our hearts and hands into making beautiful, unique presents from leftover materials.

Speaking of choosing sustainability, near the end of November we are bringing back Mending Lab in person at Cura Collective in the Central District of Seattle. I'll have more on that next time.

I hope all your choices to make do with what you have are rooted in choice and joy, and that you buy new scissors when you need them.