I went to art school. I dropped out of art school. I majored in Crafts in art school. That's right, Crafts. I don't know if this moniker was for lack of a more distinguished term, but the Crafts department was made up of functionality - ceramics, textiles, furniture making. It was not obtuse art. Not obscure art. It was art for the masses that didn't lose it's integrity in trying to confuse the viewer into thinking they had to find the hidden message. Crafts are not generally a glimpse into the tortured soul of a social outcast with mommy issues.
For this, I was in love. After being taught for years how to talk like an artist, I was finally learning to simply create like one. To construct art objects. To mechanically problem solve and take my larger than average lady's hands and let them take over to create shapes and beauty. The brain bone's connected to the arm bone. The arm bone's connected to the finger bone. The finger bone's connected to the art bone. No where does the mouth bone come in. My work did not need convoluted artist's statements belittling the observer by reminding them of how much deeper my thoughts run. I am not here to tell you how to feel. I am simply giving you the vehicle.
However due to idealist notions that college equals career opportunities, I dropped out of art school and got a degree in English Lit with a focus on early twentieth century American work. I mostly do not regret this decision. The stories I studied focused on disenchantment and loss and often finished with revelation. Whether that revelation was bleak or hopeful, it was always a journey of profound introspective notions of dealing with society and culture. These works were wonderful meldings of self-reflection and outward scrutiny. The dichotomy reminded me much of my love of "Crafts." Despite that weighty description, they were often also very simply written. No need to bog down the point with flowery language and ten cent words.
It's fitting that now I make simple things. Artistic things, but things nonetheless. I like simple things. I like art. I love to blend them. This Christmas my move to the "Land of the Pines" presented a wonderful medium my art school contemporaries would no doubt shun and decry. It's an abomination for inspiration to be found in the most mundane of places, and my inspiration literally fell from the sky. Tiny tightly wrapped North Carolina pine cones. Then again during a visit to my mother's house in Virginia, I found huge perfect pinecones, the kind of such fractal symmetry that you'd swear they were mass produced in a factory from a mold. These wonderful little works of nature and science and evolution presented themselves to me one morning while raking leaves. We fondly refer to the pines in our yard as the "weed of trees" due to their propensity for reproduction, but they really are marvels. Their whispy narrow trunks that bend so willingly to strong winds are misunderstood. They bend not from meekness, but rather due to their strength and willingness to not only withstand destruction, but to defy it. They fold and let the wind beat them over so that they can stand up again once the storm has passed amid the so call "hard" wood trees left in jumbled piles of splintered rubble.
So this month I make wreaths. Circles of pine cones, dried flowers and pods, with a smattering of bay leaves for color and aroma. I take great care when creating these. Allowing each pine cone to tell me where it needs to be, letting each leaf explain where it wants to be nestled. All for the sake of the pines, my own enjoyment, and the sensation of creating an art piece. One which will never hang in a gallery or be reviewed by a critic or featured in a collection. But rather one I can hang on my mantle or give as a gift or sell to housewives in bedazzled kitten sweatshirts.
