Clutter vs. Chaos: Finding the "Write" Balance, Part I

Without atmosphere a painting is nothing.

~ Rembrandt

T

he same can be said for writers.  Or at least for this writer.   Oh, I’ve written, scribbled, jotted, agonized over many a dangling participle on trains, in planes, park benches, grassy knolls, empty rooms, and trash-filled dorms.

With ball points, fountain pens, pencils, even markers.  Scrap paper, napkins, restaurant receipts, backs of envelopes, ruled notebooks, leather journals, and thick parchment style paper. I have even been known to use a computer once in a while.

But I simply cannot write, I mean, physically write, while surrounded by chaos.



Now where did I put that piece of paper?



Chaos is different from clutter.  A space can be cluttered yet orderly.  The desk in my home office is cluttered with crystal glasses filled with pens ~ one for each colour, as well as jars for scissors, exacto knives, letter openers and the like.  There is a decorative box filled with fountain pens, and another one with stamps and return address labels.  Not to mention the keyboard, mouse, and monitor for my desktop (I know, how archaic!), and a stack of letters waiting to be stamped “Answered On_____” and then filed away.  And to top it all off, a little fan (no air conditioning unit in there.  Whew.)

That is clutter.  It is not pristine, sleek, empty.  But it works.  It is still ordered.

The rest of my home office, however, is. . . well, let’s just say it looks like a derecho whipped through it.  Stacks of 12x12 paper, sheets of stickers, and books of card stock (I make cards for friends) rest precariously on the floor next to my desk and on top of the bed, boxes and bags of books sit next leaning towers of books.  Because as with most home offices, mine serves three functions: home office, guest room, and library.  And as with most writers, that last is an ever hungry monster.  I always buy more books before I’ve even finished reading the ones I just bought two weeks ago.

Can I write in such an atmosphere? 

Of course.

Do I want to write in such an atmosphere?

No.

You are shocked ~ I can sense your vibe from here. (I told you last week I was iNtuitive!)  Ah yes, creatives are stereotyped as being clutterbugs who either love their mess or don’t even notice it.  (ok, fine ~ that last is actually true most of the time.  I am as far from OCD as one can possibly get without calling a health inspector.)

I’m also very dramatic and am always exaggerating.

Most creatives live the majority of their life in their imagaination.  That's where all the real work begins, after all.  BUt if it's going to change anyone's life or touch their heart, it has to live Nevernever land and come to roost on the printed page.  And when one can't find just the right sticker, or that specific piece of scrapbook paper, or mysteriously disappearing tape runners, or the notebook filed with handwritten story ideas and quotes, well, there comes a point in every creative life when something must be done.  And I, dear readers, have reached that point. 

Either I go, or the couch goes.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Tune in next week to find out more!  Meanwhile, what about you?  Does atmosphere help or hurt your creativity?  What does your creative space look like?  Post links to your pics in the comments!

The Art of Poetry and the Poetry of Art

Every child is an artist.  The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. 

~ Pablo Picasso

Many moons ago, I took an art class.  I was around twelve years old and I loved art.  The idea of painting filled me with excitement.  Eager to express the poetry inside me, I paid rapt attention to the teacher’s instructions.  Alas, the class was teaching portraiture and depth and dimension has never been my strong suit.  My people did not look anything like a real person.

An art teacher worth her weight in gold would have taken one look at my work and would have noticed my fascination with colour and symbolism.  Perhaps she would have encourage me to try my hand at capturing the essence of flowers or landscapes.  Even abstract expression.

Maybe my teacher was conditionally loved as child.  Maybe her art mentor scoffed at her paintings.  I am not sure what she expected from a twelve year old girl ~ how many prodigy Picassos or Pugins are out there?!  Whatever the reason, my efforts were condescendingly mocked.

That was the last art class I took.  Discouraged, the brushes stiffened in their jars, the canvases languished in a forgotten corner and the paint shriveled up.  I had no talent for painting portraits.

But who said portraits are the only thing worth painting?

It has only been recently that I have discovered my talent for word painting.  But I still did not connect that to art.  Until I read a chapter in Susan Goldstein Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy.  In chapter X, Susan encourages her readers [and poetry students] to embrace art and poetry wherever you may find it and to find poetry prompts in unlikely places.  One of these prompts involved creating an “I am . . .” collage.  She says:

Cut out colors, pictures and words that help define you. . . .Glue it onto cardboard or into your journal in a minicollage. [1]

Why, I can do that kind of art!  Art is about expressing some truth or feeling or thought without words.  Since this is a poetry exercise, you are encouraged to use words if they point to some aspect of who you are, but it is not required.  I love words, so I used throughout my collage to express aspects of my personality.   Susan suggests using cardboard or paper, but I loved the idea that this was a form of art, so instead, I went to my local Michael’s and bought a canvas.

In the course of creating my collage, I found that not only was my poetic creativity exercised, the ghost of a failed art class was exorcised. 

What would your “I am . . .” collage look like?  A bit of coloured glass, a blue bird’s feather, the top of a baby acorn?  Play around with different objects and materials.  Maybe you’ll release some ghosts of your own and discover the artist within.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

[1] page 141, Poemcrazy, Susan G. Wooldridge, Three Rivers Press, 1996