Hankering after Creativity

I've been running into creative people randomly all week, and it's making me lus (a nice Afrikaans word denoting a desire for something, pronounced "liss") to get all arty-farty again.

I used to sketch stuff in class (most of my best drawings are on lined exam paper!), write copious amounts of short stories and poetry, and from an early age was involved in whatever creative stuff the parents were up to. Dad, as pastor, often held evangelistic campaigns. Of course, advertising was needed, in the form of posters on poles around town. Printers? Photoshop? YOU WISH! Each poster was hand-made.

First we cut the design for each colour set from film, then plastered on our silkscreens. All of us, smallest to largest, became pretty adept at creating a nice colour blend (think rainbows, with no harsh edges between colours), at checking the previous run to see if it was dry enough for the black or other colour top design - and at laying out thousands of posters to dry across the church, hall, offices, lawn (ensuring none blew away), rotating them through to the next run when ready.

I grew up with the smell of turps and thinners, paint stuck to my clothes in interesting combinations, the odd bottom-of-the-foot matching up with a mistaken foot print on poster or floor. I learnt to clean squeegees and remove film from silk screens.

And then how to put everything up on poles, and take it all down again later. We recycled the cardboard/hardboard backings for the next event.

As little kids we were always into paints, pencils, paper, scissors. Mom taught us well, and we each received a sprinkling of her talent (some more than others).

But somehow I've forgotten to take time out to be creative. The years have slipped by and the only thing I write is blog-posts. The only images I work with are on my digital camera or the computer. The sketch book I bought is still empty, the graphite I was given unused. Acrylic paints die a slowly-hardening death in the back of the cupboard and watercolours become a drought-cracked mudhole.

Now and then I find myself eyeing canvas, brushes, a big box of amazing pencil colours. I remember what it was like to experiment with feathers, turning them into writing tools and scratching on paper with Real Ink. (My mom still used ink and nibs in her school days - not that very long ago)

But I shake my head and think that I have neither patience nor time to use them. They'd only gather dust, or I'd get frustrated if something didn't work out like it looked in my head. I'm not the patient type that can sit with a single project over months - it must be done and good within a few hours or not at all.

So that part of me usually wins.

Yet I still find my soul hankering after Creative Writing classes, the feel of wet potter's clay in my fingers, a blending of paint colour, or the grain and smell of wood being worked.

One of these days those urges are going to get so strong that I'll do something about it.

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::update::
In wondering how to help my son deal with grief over his gran's death, I've been mulling art therapy - expressing things you can't say in words, but can in art. I don't know how to go about it yet, but I'm thinking...