Juvenilia

The early work tells the story of an artist.

Blue Dress painted by the author.

I always created art to give it away. I must have learned this from my grandmother, whose beautiful painted ceramics are still some of my treasured gifts.

Christmas was always about what you made rather than what you bought. The rule of thumb was always, “It’s the thought that counts.”

My mother lives by the rule of necessity; if you’re not using it, give it to someone who can. My mother disdains clutter. I didn’t understand this as a sentimental child when she’d pass along my artworks after enjoying them.

My takeaway was that my creativity was meant to be given away. I rarely kept any of my early work.

Sometimes, it makes me sad that I didn’t keep more. I can’t go back and look at how far I’ve come as an artist past a certain point. I’ve been making art for as long as I can remember, but I have little of my old work.

I was an emotional child, with emotions larger than my tiny body could manage, so I wrote and made art to channel the excess. I would disappear into creating; it didn’t matter what it was.

I started journaling and writing poetry when I was eight, fueled by Stevie Nicks, Sade, Mariah Carey (Unplugged), and Tori Amos. Also, because I was too young to see the movie, the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack was my first foray into Billie Holiday, and I will never forget that moment.

Back then, my child’s brain couldn’t understand how Lindsey Buckingham was a man and Stevie Nicks and Billie Holiday were women.

I was cautioned early on to be careful of writing down my feelings, and I feared my true feelings being “discovered.” Hence, I moved into abstraction, writing esoteric poems and small drawings that I now consider sigils; typically, a boy I had a crush on or something I wanted to embody, “glamorous” inspired by Fergie’s song, sat above my desk for the better part of my adolescence.

But I never kept these journals, sketchbooks, or any pieces I made. I felt it was better to pass them along to someone who could use or dispose of them when I was “done” with them. But now, I have little to look back on; little I can see and remember that this is where I came from as an artist; this is my trajectory.

I never believed my art was worth anything because no one told me it was special. Art and creativity were so effortless for me, and I thought anything of value came from hard work and toil.

It took me a long to accept and claim the title of artist. Though I know in my essence that is what and who I am.

I’m working through this as a recovering perfectionist because all of my work matters. The process, the parts I love best now, are the “happy accidents,” as Bob Ross would say.

I love getting lost in creation. When I paint or write, I meditate and become fully immersed in the creative process. It’s only later, when I return to the surface, that I can view my creations objectively.

I have virtually no memory of painting my Trinity pieces, which are my favorite. They came through me, but my mind was not trying to control them.

Trinity Series: Mary the Mother, Jesus, Mary Magdalene painted by the author.

My advice to any creative, whether you’re an artist, writer, thinker, or seeker, is to keep your work. Even if you think it’s terrible, especially if it’s terrible, keep it because it’s all part of the creation process; you don’t know if, looking back, it might prompt an idea, and over time, our work adds up, the good, the bad, and the mediocre.

In five years, I’ve written so many words, so many words I have not shared because I wasn’t ready. The ideas were still ripening; I wasn’t sure what I had to say or if what I had to say was worth sharing. But I kept my work, and now I can go back and pick out the nuggets of gold and continue polishing them. I can see where I’ve come from as a writer. That doesn’t mean I need to use what I’ve written, but I do see the commitment I’ve made to myself.

Now, I save my sketches and paintings because you never know. I still paint over things; I’m perfectly willing to cut something up and make it into something new.

Now, when I give my art away, it is an energy exchange. I realize the gift I am giving, and I’m not apologetically giving it away.

I ache for those early poems. But I keep writing them anyway, even if no one will ever see them. Even if, to my mind, they will never be good enough.

Make art anyway; you can focus on the desired outcome later, but creation is not the space for the critic.

Sending you love,

Margaret

Originally posted to Substack on 10/7/2022.