In defense of scribblers

I was looking after the girl with the dead fish again the other day. This time she was cranky. She stayed up too late and woke up too early, which, for a four-year-old, equals a lot of crocodile tears into couch cushions. We were painting. I started a portrait of her, thinking maybe it would cheer her up. Instead, I accidentally gave her an inferiority complex because my painting was such a masterpiece (no it wasn't).

Her plastic paintbrush clattered to the table as she wailed, "This is the worst day I ever had! I'm so bad at this and I can only scribble and none of my friends scribble and all my paintings looks so bad..." She went on.

I scrawled a loopy face onto the portrait in a feeble attempt to convince her that I still scribble too—only my scribbles weren't half as untamed as hers, which just upset her more.

"Listen," I said. "There are some very famous grown-up artists who only scribble. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

I was afraid she might prefer a noisy tantrum to art history. But she nodded, wiping away the fake tears she so desperately wished were pouring down her cheeks, and sat on my lap at the computer while I looked up Jackson Pollock. We scrolled through galleries of his paintings and she pointed out her favorites.

"Wow, this is just so beautiful," she'd say, laughing delighted, four-year-old giggles as pure as her scribbles. She was enraptured by grainy videos of Pollock and other painters at work.

I think sometimes we all feel like she did. Like whatever we're working on is just pointless scrawling, and maybe the canvas was better off blank before we came along and messed it all up. But maybe we just need to see it in a pretty new frame. Maybe our life-scribbling is worth a million bucks to certain art aficionados or to our mothers or to four-year-olds or to God.

We didn't go back to the watercolors again that day, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't because she was still feeling ashamed or inadequate. She was just an action painter.

You Are Beautiful

After Nathan's post about great old buildings, I came upon this one in Fountain Square, an artsy district in downtown Indianapolis.

Nothing boosts my confidence like affirmative architecture.

"Aw, shucks, downtown Indy. So are you," I whisper, blushing a little. This town makes me feel so good about myself.

And this project makes me feel good about the world. I did some quick research to find the story behind this building, and I ended up spending a good hour on this Web site (www.you-are-beautiful.com). Why haven't I heard about this before?

You Are Beautiful is an effort to brighten days worldwide, making a difference by "catching us in the midst of daily life and creating moments of positive self realization." It's affiliated with art shows (like the one I wish I'd known was in Fountain Square two years ago), collaborative projects, stickers I'm sending in for, and more.

There's lots of cool pictures and neat freebies on the site. Make sure you look at these cool books designed by beautiful folks all around the globe.

Nostalgia vs. Novelty

I usually feel a fair amount of shame when I get all nostalgic. I'm not sure what it is, but whenever I get to day-dreaming about times gone by, I often get this shooting pang of conscious that seems to scream "get on with it!" After all, I am only 23: what do I have to be nostalgic about?

However, when it comes to novelty, it seems that any cheap new trick can catch my attention. I feel that I should be embarrassed about this, but of course, I am not. Why is it that I can so easily latch onto something new, turning a blind eye to the deceptive trickery of plastique and gloss and new, yet when I ponder upon an old friend, that one summer, that awesome experience, or a could-of-should-of-would-of, I shrug it off with such an ease that only self-inflicted shame can provide? This is a question that has been running laps in my mind for the past few days. Until now.

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal


Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Shame be doggoned; I love nostalgia. I've recently been feeling quite nostalgic, and have been regularly drinking of its springs of joy and sadness. Talking to old friends that I do not regularly keep in contact with, thinking on past experiences and circumstances, and time-traveling back to those good and not-so-good old days (whichever ones they may be at the moment): I am steeped in it, and it is great.

I have really come to appreciate nostalgia, because it has in turn brought appreciation for my past and where I come from and how I got here etc., etc., etc. Being nostalgic reminds me of people that I loved, and still love, and that I am sure still love me, because though we rarely even talk anymore, and because we have all gone our separate ways, one to another we are still who we were and who we always will be: bits of fruit suspended in the jiggling gelatin mold of life and time (please forgive me ). And I love that.

But what's interesting about nostalgia is that it really relies on novelty. Without the novelty of experiences had, secrets shared, places been, and new friends found, what would there be to be nostalgic about? Of course, through the lens of nostalgia, all that is plastic and all that is gloss and all that is false or fake is filtered away, and only the good things--the nice things--last.