07 March 2013

Art and March

Y'all. I hate March. I know for sure I've said it before on here, but when the seasons change, I just about can't take it. I get so restless and wild-eyed. I desperately struggle with impulses while driving to get on the highway and just go. anywhere. Anywhere that's awaaaaay from here! But I also like the being trapped part (yes, my favorite people in the world trap me, in the best way), because it allows things my heart yearns for to bubble up to the surface. Things I usually just hush up.

Almost a decade ago, I started making art. It wasn't very good, but it was exactly what I needed. I can't make a picture look like the thing it's supposed to represent to save my life (seriously, someone should make a torture movie where the victim's lover will be shot if the victim can't draw a dog that couldn't also be a horse or an octopus. I mean, I wouldn't watch it, but still, you're welcome, creepy Hollywood execs.) But I love to put the way I feel in color. And to have to do it layer by layer for like a month.

Man, art supplies are expensive. I put everything I wanted to make a few pieces that are burning a hole in my brain, and, wouldn't you know, $150!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So. I bought supplies to make one piece. You will almost assuredly never see anything I make. But, just know, I've decided to not need to make things that are mind-blowingly wonderful in order to enjoy making. So there, part of me that can't handle not being immediately good at something. Take that! You won't quash my creativity under the weight of shame any longer. Also, you're a poopyhead and we're breaking up.

[It's actually more likely that we'll just drift apart.]


  1. I'm glad I got the live version of the blog post at cluster haha

  2. http://www.shaunaniequist.com/storage/media/needle.pdf

    1. "Those people are bad people, and liars, and
      we hope they develop adult-onset acne really bad."

      I laughed out loud at this part. Though I hope it's not true since I'm the one telling myself.

    2. but I do know that just about the last thing a rock star wants, when there is a line of cute twenty-year-old girls in skinny jeans and black nail polish, is a thirty-year-old mom showing him pictures of her baby on her phone, trying to tell him something very personal and weepy about her son.