I love the byproducts that creativity generates and how they cling to those that create and the places where creation happens. Paint on hands and on clothing and thoughtlessly smeared across foreheads and noses. Ink and graphite smudged fingers, pencil shavings, clippings of paper. Notes and annotated outlines. Paper wadded up and tossed aside, paper scribbled with thoughts, sketches and faint grasps at ideas, notebooks in stacks, sticky notes, references scattered on desks and pinned on walls, lists and clumsy half-realized maps.
Doodles and thoughts on every piece of paper you spread in front of you, no matter where you are. Paint and ink under your nails, clinging after you’ve washed them. I found old outlines from an old story jammed in the back of my desk drawer, dull colored pencils, sketches and drawings. I look at the paint stains on my old clothes and can sometimes tell which painting I was working on when I wore this or that oversized t-shirt or old pair of sweatpants cut above the knee into shorts. I pick at the glue I use for collages dried under my nails as I sit in the passenger’s seat of the car.
I love art. I love how generously it touches our lives and how messy and unapologetic it is in coming into being.
The only thing I don’t love is that I have to clean it up…