CREATIVITY
A Cautionary Tale: The Dangerous Joys Of Living With An Artist
Be prepared; Recognize the signs
I knew you were a doodler.
A whiz with a pencil.
Content to sit in a coffee shop or park, observing human activity.
Glance up, gather the image, then back down to the page to capture it in lead and graphite.
When we merged our lives together, I looked forward to being in the presence of your glow, your unique worldview.
And then the breadcrumbs started appearing.
Little notes left for me.
The way you’d sign off on scribbled love letters and cards.
There were the clues, the red flags, the signs.
Not one sketchbook, but several, as you tested the feel of them in your hands.
A new plastic repository for the past ten years’ images.
The colored pencils. The implements and tools.
Tiny, expensive tubes of paint — acrylic, then the watercolor explorations.
The special papers.
Experimentations with canvases — less expensive ones first, to be sure.
And I slowly realized —
You weren’t just a doodler, not just a sketch-loving kind of guy.
Whoa, I was sharing my space, my life, with an Artist.
I’d once hoped and dreamed that my future life partner would understand my unique schedule, my ever-changing gig economy situation, perhaps have an artistic mindset as well, or be a musician.
I pictured lying on the floor under a grand piano, while my pianist boyfriend created magic on the keys with his fingers.
But even better, I am in an environment where every other day brings fresh ideas. Our brave, orange little dinosaur or dragon friend made an appearance, then suddenly rocks were the new free medium of choice.
There were the Daily Drawing Calendar Years.
Then The Fun Animated Character Months
The Mini-Canvas Extravaganzas.
Followed by the ever-present newest fixation —
The Oh-My-God-My-Partner-Is-A-BIRDER-Years, that continue to this day.
It’s colorful chaos.
Delightful doodles.
Scraps of paper. Splashes of paint and pencil shavings.
Lots of head scratching, standing just this way and that. Pondering.
Frustration.
First attempts, tossed disasters, frantic experiments.
A collection of completed works.
Stacked canvases. Piles of sketchbooks.
But most importantly, creating.
It can be the most magnificent, months-long painting.
Or the cutest little jotted-off message of fun.
But most tellingly, they came from you, were created by YOU.
I’m a writer who can only draw stick figures. But some say my writing brings something to their lives, adds something, entertains.
And as “silly” as you find these little hobbies and side diversions, as much as you try to shrug it off as no big deal, that you’re not “really” an artist, I am filled with gratitude for being able to share my space with An Artist.
The evidence is everywhere, and it is magnificent fun.
How do I know, in my heart of hearts, that you’re an artist?
We’re on one of the most beautiful, remote beaches in Hawaii. I’m soaking it in, breathing it up, but you’re off to the side, cleaning up the beach, maybe? Perhaps scavenging and finding treasures? Picking up trash and being a good citizen?
You return to me, grinning -
Come see my people.
I walk over. I see. And I smile.
You are undeniably you, and you just can’t help your beautiful self.
Thanks for adding so much color, creativity and fun to this thing we call life, my precious Edmond. Aaaahhhh, I get to live with —
A Beautiful Artist.
Love you.
© Joe Guay, 2024
Other uplifting pieces by this author you might enjoy —
