 Look, art is difficult. I am not by any means the first or the only one to say it and I won’t be the last. Whenever I hear or see this mentioned, I want to nod my head like a woodpecker on high speed.
It takes a tremendous amount of introspection, dissociation, persistence, patience, and probably just plain don’t-give-a-damn weirdness to make art. On the other hand, it is also child’s play, which can be pretty hard to achieve once you’re past the age of about ten – just ask Picasso*. The process and the results can be either extremely frustrating and disappointing, or deeply, soul-wrenchingly satisfying. Or both. But art isn’t all heart and guts. It is also bone structure and skin and hair and a face, although not necessarily a pretty one. Art has a surface and it’s called technique. The good news for all struggling wannabes? Technique can be learnt. And practice makes near enough perfect for my liking. Now I am not a full-time professional artist. I am not even part-time, since my creative down-time has to be divided between visual art and writing, and then subdivided into drawing and painting, poetry and prose, and again subdivided into realistic and more abstract, Afrikaans and English, and then... You get the idea. I can’t even presume to take an artist’s holiday (see Julia Cameron**), as this would be a holiday from a holiday. I’m more or less artistically schizophrenic. The point is, I have spent the past three or more decades pottering in and out of art and I have always envied the apparent ease with which real artists could make pen or pencil or paint do exactly as they wanted to. Other writers could sit down for hours on end churning out words by the thousands, while I struggled to fill one page or stay put for more than an hour at a time. Other artists wielded their craft with the authority of the pros they are on a daily basis, while I had half a sketchbook of mediocre images after years. But now, as if overnight, all the years of ambling along seem to have paid off. Those weekly walks around the drawing block have strengthened by muscles. The five-minute finger exercises have strengthened my hand. I am no genius, no master, but I am better than I was. I have become writing fit. I have become drawing fit. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I can do that five-day hike and I won’t slip on the slopes. Eye and ear and heart and hand all aligned, fighting fit. So keep going, because see, after all, it’s easy. (But oh, boy, is it difficult!) * Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. Pablo Picasso ** The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron
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 Like a fun quiz? Then here’s a question – just as a test of character; there are no wrong answers.
It’s a rainy public holiday and you and the cat have spent the whole day indoors. Now, just before five in the afternoon, the drizzle has finally stopped, which means the cat can go outside and won’t be scared out of her wits when you start the vacuuming that you have been putting off for a week or two. But with the rain gone, the clouds are opening up and it is the most glorious autumn afternoon outside. Soon it will be dark. Do you: 1) let the cat out and spend half an hour vacuuming, because you won’t have another chance until the weekend, 2) neglect your household duties again and hasten outside for a lakeside walk before the light disappears, or 3) put down your smartphone and start getting ready for your favourite TV-show that will start sometime soon? You even ask? Of course I went for a walk along the lake and it was gloriously magnificent and splendiferous! And because I have so many dear friends with whom I would have liked to share the walk but probably never will, I tried to write it all down for them. Here it is, bare as bones and unedited, in Afrikaans, but because I don’t trust Google Translate, there’s an English version at the end. ******** Hierdie aand wil ek neerskryf, voor dit soos ’n droom verdwyn. Vyfuur en die reën wat heeldag kat-en-muis gespeel het met die son gee toe, gee op en sluip weg. Die lug word helder van die son se ondergaan. En ek gaan stap langs die meer. Die water is ’n silwer spieël vol rimpels en kleur. Die lug is skoon en lou en in die wolke bloei die son vir oulaas soos waterverf. Dis ’n landskap wat vra om geskilder te word, maar ek is nie die een nie. Hierdie strook langs die meer is ’n openbare wandelstrook. Grasperke strek van die huise af tussen die bome in tot aan die oewer, maar dit het openbare toegang. Mens kan ver langs die meer stap. Ek koers oos met die sakkende son agter my. Orals is bootjies en kano’s op die oewer uitgesleep en onderstebo geberg, boggel teen die reën. Daar is sitplekke ook – tafels, stoele en bankies van hout of plastiek of gietyster, soms aan ’n boom vasgeketting – vermoedelik daar geplaas deur die bewoners van die huise wat aan die wandelstrook grens. Vanaand is daar nie baie mense op die paadjie nie. ’n Ier met ’n lui poedel wat aan ’n halsband beur, ’n vrou met ’n netjies geknipte spanjoel, ’n man en twee seuns stil op ’n bankie asof in meditasie. “A lovely evening, isn’t it?” Ek loop oor die netjies gesnyde gras, tussen bome deur – casuarinas, melaleucas met skilferende stamme, bloekoms. ’n Wildevy groei hoog in ’n dooie bloekomstomp, lank gelede se saadjie wat daarbo ontkiem het. Daar’s ’n wind in die toppe. Die son sak laer, die lug vergrys, die water word silwerder. Ek draai om. Corellas, ’n soort klein wit kaketoe, kom raserig in die bome slaapplek soek. Reënbooglorikiete gesels en hang hanswors aan boomtakke. Die lig vibreer. Iewers braai iemand vleis. Die lug is lou van skemerte. By die pier staan ’n seun met kaal bolyf en slaan op die blink water met ’n stok. ’n Sterretjie vlieg oor, vlerk en bek in skerp gepunte silhoeët. ’n Fotograaf pak sy driepoot op en stap weg. Die krieke begin tentatief tril soos viole wat stem voor ’n opvoering. ’n Lelkiewiet staan in die vlak water, sy twee kuikens benoud piepend tussen ons. Die kiewiet se maat skel my van verder aan. En die lug word donkerder en ’n boepens halfmaan hang al hoog en die silwer water ril van visse wat spring en ka-ka-ka-ka-karrakarrakarra lag twee kookaburras en die krieke tril harder en dertien bos-eende breek onewe op om my deur te laat en o! die lug en die wolke en die silwer water. A lovely evening, isn’t it? **** I want to write down this evening before it disappears like a dream. Five o’ clock and the rain that has been playing cat-and-mouse with the sun the whole day yields, gives up and slinks away. The sky becomes clear from the sun’s setting. And I go for a walk along the lake. The water is a silver mirror of wrinkles and colour. The air is clear and warm and in the clouds the sun bleeds like watercolour. It is a landscape that begs to be painted, but I am not the one. This strip along the lake is a public pathway. Lawns stretch from the houses through the trees to the shore, but it has public access. You can walk a long way along the lake. I head east with the setting sun at my back. Everywhere there are boats and canoes pulled out onto the shore and humped upside-down against the rain. There are seats as well – tables, chairs and benches of timber or plastic or cast-iron, sometimes chained to a tree – presumably put there by the inhabitants of the houses that border on the pathway. There are not a lot of people on the pathway this evening. An Irishman with a lazy poodle pulling against the leash, a woman with a neatly clipped spaniel, a man and two boys on a bench, quietly as if meditating. “A lovely evening, isn’t it?” I walk over the neatly mowed lawns, among the trees – casuarinas, melaleucas with flaking bark, blue gums. High up in a dead eucalypt trunk grows a fig tree, taken root long ago from a seed. There is a wind in the tree tops. The sun sinks lower, the sky greys, the water silvers. I turn back. Corellas congregate noisily in the trees to roost. Rainbow lorikeets chat and hang clowning from branches. The light vibrates. Somewhere someone is having a barbeque. The air is warm with dusk. At the jetty a bare-chested boy hits upon the shiny water with a stick. A tern flies past, wing and beak sharp silhouettes. A photographer packs up his tripod and walks away. The crickets start their tentative trill like violins before a performance. A lapwing stands in the shallows, its two anxiously cheeping chicks between us. The lapwing’s partner scolds me from a distance. And the sky gets darker and the potbellied half-moon hangs high and the silver water shudders from jumping fish and ka-ka-ka-ka-karrakarrakarra laugh the kookaburras and the crickets trill louder now and thirteen wood ducks divide unevenly to let me through and oh! the sky and the clouds and the silver water. A lovely evening, isn’t it?  Instead of boring you with a list of books read in 2017, I’ll take a leaf out of the book of the Writers Write Book Reading Challenge 2018 and give it a little tweak. So here is a little writing prompt for the year ahead and those times when your creative inspiration has hit a wall.
Try writing a story (or a poem or an essay if you prefer) according to each of these guidelines:
Have fun and Happy New Year! PS: My award for the best book I read in 2017 is shared by Lost and Found by Brooke Davis and The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon, both with young girls as protagonists.  Every time I have to move house or, disgusted by all the earthly ‘stuff’ we have gathered, once again contemplate moving to a small cabin in the woods, I am brought to a halt by the burden of books. While I could undoubtedly squeeze my clothes into one large suitcase, books occupy ten or twenty times the space.
The Tiny House movement is commendable and enviable for its minimalist approach, fitting big lives into small spaces without making it seem crowded. A book (!) on small eco houses has me drooling with envy for their stripped-down simplicity. But romantic notions of living in a shelter no bigger than a chicken coop go flying out the door when I contemplate my lexical menagerie. They tug at my apron strings like a band of hungry children and with a sigh I have to resume responsibility. Besides the essential books, both fiction and non-fiction, that fill the shelves in the house, there are the stacks of textbooks from two or three university degrees, many which are almost certainly outdated and will never be consulted again, but which I cannot bring myself to chuck out. Add to that two crates of photo albums, the same of diaries, countless sketchbooks, and files full of the various documents that keeps modern life ticking. (Where are the dreams of a paperless office now?) Except for the documents, textbooks and the occasional research tome, going digital is not an option for me. I am incapable of reading anything longer than a (short) email on a screen, one of the reasons I have been unable to follow any blogger, columnist or otherwise digitally occupied writer with more than a nominal fidelity. Photos and diaries can and probably should be scanned as a backup, but you don’t expect me to throw away the originals, do you? Good. Even more than the boxes full of books that have travelled halfway round the world with me, there is the collection of paintings that now officially occupy one whole bedroom in our house. To the original legacy of seventy plus paintings (not to mention more than five hundred watercolour sketches and forty years’ worth of sketchbooks) from my dear departed mother, I have been steadily adding my own paintings, with no hope of ever selling anything. In a recent computer scare Someone was in danger of losing twenty years of digital data, much of it (like the books) irrelevant and of purely nostalgic value. Even as I secretly chided him for crying over “treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal”, I knew that I was equally guilty as charged. Is it then wrong to love beautiful things? Is it immoral to crave an environment that feeds your soul with words, music, or art? Should we live Spartan lives and spurn even the accumulation and preservation of cultural arts and artefacts? Of course not. Call me biased or blasphemous, but beauty is surely a drop of the essence of God and therefore essential to spiritual survival. Living without beauty kills the soul. This does not solve my dilemma of living a simple life without getting rid of loads of books and art. It is the existence that my dear mother, her of the many paintings and the many-splendored life, somehow managed to achieve in her last years. But not without cheating, I might add, as her one-bedroom house-cum-gallery was extended with an annexed guestroom, a painting studio and a storeroom. So here is my wish for the new year (or some near future before I die) – a small hut in the wood with a large library stacked to the rafters with books and walls covered with lovely paintings. Heaven, no?  Writing is a thing of the mind. It is in essence the arrangement and placement of words, a very virtual reality. Unlike visual art, which is made out of paint and paper and ink and wood and clay and suchlike, writing seems to be pretty much distanced from any physical reality. Or so you might think.
But it is not so. Why, in the dead of night, when I should have been off to bed, have I suddenly come to this black-on-white conclusion? Because of a pen. Ours is a household well-populated with writing instruments. There is one on top of the fridge, one on the veranda, one or more at each computer, one on each bedside table, a few for every car, some extras in a drawer, and one in just about every bag, computer bag, handbag or backpack – you get the idea. The slightest rumour of pen drought has me scurrying off to buy some more. One can never have too many pens or notebooks. In general pens in their physicality are either unobtrusive or annoying. A few months ago, through some inane contribution to the pages of Reader’s Digest, I was awarded a fancy fountain pen. Valued at forty dollars, I was told. I did not like it. Its tip felt scratchy on the page. It jarred my senses and sensitivities. I was glad when its ink finally ran out. Most of the time I don’t even notice the character of pens. Seldom do they give me any pleasure. When writing, I much prefer a pencil. It might be some association with drawing or maybe a childhood memory of learning to write – soft on the upward stroke and harder on the down. But then, I was taught to write with a paintbrush on the back of my mother’s paintings, so that can’t be right either. However that may be, the pen that is keeping me up tonight is a cheap three dollar one* I picked up from the local news agent. I love the feeling of the marks it makes on paper. It slips and slides and wriggles it whips out words it waltzes across the white expanse ready to churn out a poem a story a novel a dance (I cannot put it away yet. I will let it play yet. Give it free reign, why not?) Let me tell you a story, any story, my life story. Or give me a list to jot down or a letter to write. Just don’t let the words dry up tonight. Oh, for the physicality of writing! Oh, for the love of a pen! * If you needed to know, this one is called Papermate FlexiGrip Ultra 0.8F. |
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