ART UNDERGROUND
Catharine MillardArt has always been a mystery with a mind of its own to me. Randomly weaving its way in and out of my life with no particular rhythm or pattern. Popping up for periods of time only to go back underground without resurfacing for months sometimes even years at a time. During those periods of remission the lack of creativity is so strong and yet there seems nothing I can do about it -the energy is just not flowing. It's as if that inner voice has times when it really roars and other times when it's completely silent. But then the creative life suddenly finds a way to come back up for fresh air, new life. If only I could find that imaginary switch that keeps the energy flowing all the time - completely uninterrupted. What a discovery that would be. This whole idea of uncovering the perfection, the creative connection, reminds me of a story I heard on the news recently. It was about this man in the army that had a very serious car accident that left him in a coma for several weeks. The doctor's diagnosis was grim at best describing to the man's wife the degree of brain damage he had suffered. When the man woke up the only change they could find was he had suddenly developed an artistic talent that he never displayed before the accident. After hearing this story, I remember thinking - how can this be? Could we all possibly have this ability lurking within us that needs nothing more than a good bop on the head to shake it loose?
The first time I became aware of art in my life was in kindergarten at the age of five. It was the first day of finger painting and we were told to bring a shirt from home to wear over our clothes that could take the abuse it would undoubtedly receive. My father gave me one of his business shirts that he could no longer wear because of a small cigarette bum. I remember putting on that bright white, perfectly pressed and starched shirt with a great deal of hesitation. I was very tentative at first taking great care not to get a drop of color on that white shirt. But the temptation was overwhelming and as soon as the first drop of paint found my Dad's shirt, I jumped in with the complete reckless abandon of a five year old. During the course of the activity my finger painting transferred from the art paper to the shirt itself I smeared every color I could get my fingers on and proudly applied it right to the shirt. I wore my artwork for the rest of the morning hoping my Dad would also appreciate my work. That day I learned how fun art was, but maybe even more importantly, it seemed to give me a sense of power. Through art, I was able to break through a parental barrier- the source of relentless discipline in my life and break all the rules- perhaps even more fun than the actual act of trashing that nice clean shirt.
It was not until several years later that art reappeared in my life-at the age of 15 when most of my time was spent in my bedroom listening to my favorite albums over and over on a little plastic record player until I could recite every song word for word. Once the boredom reached its peak, my hands started reaching for drawing materials and before I knew it I was recreating every album cover, book cover, pictures from books, or anything else I could find in
45