My Adventure Plein Air
Since I’ve gone to Lori Putman workshop, her word keep ring in my ears about color theory and folks whining about why they can’t do something.
I have been reading a lot of blogs lately, FB ha been showing artist with disability and it seem they are all have one thing in common, they don’t whine or say they can’t.
Then last week I was checking my email and I came across this Newsletter by Crista Cloutier called “She looked like Georgia O’Keeffe❤” which got me thinking about my own life.
I normally don’t share this part of my life but for you to understand my adventure Plein air you must understand me and my struggles. So hear goes… almost 60 years ago I was born with dyslexic (I was on the high scale about 35 years ago)and who know what else. As I young child I can remember laying on my grandma kitchen floor creating what I thought was art as my grandma taught pregnant mom how to cook my dads favorite meals. I was two and half at that time.
As I grew I kept creating my simple child like art as I was being told by family, teachers and even friends that I could not do this or that because of my dyslexia and being an artist was a no-no to my family and grandmother because they thought I was not smart enough.
Growing up was hard and beginning told all those lies as a child you began to believe them but one. I knew deep down in my gut that I am a artist even thou they couldn’t see it.
Then came the day when I put my foot down and taught my self to paint and create as an adult to only hear the doctor tell me that I have osteoarthritis and one day I won’t be able to paint any more.
Well I have something to say about that and that is, I don’t want to be other Grandma Ach… I am a artist and I have travel a long hard road to get to where I am today. I had to teach my self everything I know and I am a artist.
Now I am taking a new road as an artist and that road is the hardest one yet for me – Plein Air.
I still hear those childhood voices today telling me “You can’t do this or that” and oh the pain that my joints cry out at times. But I have to remind my self that I am an artist and know matter what life throws at me I will create.
Now you are wondering why I say all of this. I am finding that there are a lot of folks out there who are like me. Maybe they don’t have dyslexia but they have been told some lies and even beat down for their dreams but I am here to tell you that if you have that desire burning inside of you and no one could brake it from you, not even time it self, than quite sitting there whining about why you can’t create.
You don’t live in the day of Grandma Ach so stop making excuses and start creating.
Here is the blog that Crista Cloutier wrote.
Every family has a story.
They called her “Grandma Ach” because of her habit of beginning each sentence with a guttural sound of disapproval. “Ach! What is this?”
But her name was Mary Anne.
She was the daughter of German immigrants. Farmers. But Mary Anne was an artist.
Bright, beautiful, and serious, the photos of my great-grandmother remind me of a young Georgia O’Keeffe.
And like Georgia O’Keeffe, Mary Anne was devoted to painting. This is what she wanted to do with her life.
But times were very different for women then.
One day a man from a neighboring farm named Adam came to call. He was looking for a wife. His own wife, his beloved Elizabeth, had passed away and Adam needed a woman to raise his three kids and run the farm.
The daughters were called out and Mary Anne, being the most beautiful, was chosen.
She fought back. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to raise children. She was an artist, it was her very soul.
But times were very different for women then.
Mary Anne would live in Elizabeth’s house, next door to Elizabeth’s parents. She raised Elizabeth’s children and each night she lay with a man who continued to mourn Elizabeth.
Over the years, she would give Adam 10 more children. Including my Grandfather.
I don’t know if there was a time that she ever liked kids. My Mom remembers Grandma Ach as hard and disinterested. I remember her too, with her long dark hair and piercing eyes. She fascinated me.
It wasn’t until she was already an old woman that she finally got all of the children out of the house and on their own paths. And the moment the last one left, Mary Anne marched to the store to buy herself canvas and paint.
She was an artist.
Finally.
But then life played its cruelest joke of all. It took away her sight.
Mary Anne went blind.
Grandma Ach would live a long life, but not a happy one. Because she was never allowed to do the work she felt most called to do.
I look at the choices we have the privilege of making today; about how to spend our time, how to live our lives, what is worth fighting for and who we want to be. We forget how lucky we really are to have such freedom.
So when an artist now whines to me that he wants to make art but just can’t get into the studio, making one excuse or another, or she’s thinking of quitting the art business because it’s just too hard, I tell them “That’s your choice.”
History is full of too many stories like Mary Anne’s, of artists who literally had no opportunity to do what their soul demanded.
“Can’t they see?” I ask myself, as I think of my great-grandmother’s fruitless struggle to be her true self, “Who is really blind?”