Ten years ago, when I abruptly retired at 55, I began to panic after the initial euphoria. What would I do with my time now?  For various (now) irrelevant reasons, I enrolled in an Interior Design program at Bellevue Community College and dove in full time. For the first time in my life I began to investigate whether there was anything in my right brain besides moths and dust bunnies. And with the help of courses in drafting, drawing, two- and three-dimensional design, even furniture construction, I began to discover that indeed there was some talent lurking there. By the second year, it was clear to me that I really had no desire to get into a second career and start a business, so the question remained – what now?

 

Then as a final project in 3-D design, I had the option of trying some stone carving, and I fell in love. A common denominator among stone carvers seems to be a visceral attraction to stone – all sizes, colors, hardness – and I was one of those who had that lifelong urge to pick up stones and carry them home for no “good” reason except to touch and to connect with their mystery. The class instructor loaned me a copy of the NWSSA newsletter he happened to have on hand, and the interview with an artist in that issue really resonated with me. So this, I thought – this is “What Now.”

 

My sweet husband, himself an artist all his adult life, was delighted.  He quickly adjusted the plans for the garage he was building for our new home on Lopez Island to include a small studio space just for me. (Including me and my stone dust in his own painting studio was clearly not an option.) My new studio had heat, good lighting, windows out to our beautiful woods, even big French doors to give me the option of working outside. That first year in our unfinished house was taken up with endless projects, inside and out, so there was never a shortage of excuses not to use my little studio. But by spring, I had accumulated a basic set of tools and enrolled in the hand carving retreat on Whidbey Island. I finally finished a small baby seal in green soapstone for my mother, which was a reminder for her of a treasured time she had once spent in rural Alaska. (Sadly, at some point it was stolen from her retirement home apartment.) During the next year I took the beginning course in hand carving with Suz Gentiluomo at the Frye Museum and a pretty piece of soapstone with green streaks became my first simple sculpture which still adorns our living room.

 

The next summer, with the encouragement (well, actually kindly shoving) of fellow Lopezian and role model Tamara Buchanan, I at last screwed up my courage and attended the whole week at Camp Brotherhood. Still using hand tools – I really loved the meditative quiet off in our corner – I got well along with a nude figure in a piece of pink-streaked alabaster, modeled after a favorite watercolor painting in our bath. I got lots of help, especially from Sabah Al-Dhaher, and was tremendously moved and inspired by the amazing B. Amore. For the first time I said out loud, “I am an artist!” I finished the nude at home and it sits beside me each night by my soaking tub, still giving me pleasure. In the fall of 2001, I created a salmon out of some lovely translucent green soapstone mounted on a fir base, and it sold for a good price at our fall Lopez Fine Art Auction. And then…nothing.  That was my last carving.

 

Why? Well, for awhile I had some good excuses. A week after the auction, I tore my knee and had to have surgery for that. Soon after, I developed carpal tunnel and other tendon problems in both hands, requiring more surgery. I decided a hammer and chisel was out of the question for awhile, so I was drawn to encaustic painting (painting with pigmented molten wax) as an “interim” pursuit. I took another class, this time at Pratt Institute, loaded up on materials, and accepted my husband’s offer of a corner of his studio for a small space of my own (the original space sits forlorn and dusty, with seven or eight lovely pieces of untouched stone). I gradually created three paintings that seemed good enough to frame and show; but encaustic is a difficult medium and I was easily discouraged. Unfortunately, there is no Northwest Encaustic Painters Association to turn to for support. Now that corner studio is also slowly disappearing under the detritus of my husband’s steady, if messy, artistic productions. I always have excuses – a big house and gardens to maintain, traveling, a wonderful almost-3-yr-old granddaughter in Seattle who needs lots of visits (okay, I need the visits too), a surprisingly busy social and volunteer life on the island, and now, a new artificial knee to get me back on my feet. But I always feel guilty – other people make art despite busy lives, why don’t I?

 

Last year, I said to an artist friend that it seemed to me that “real” artists can’t not make art! Whether or not it is shown, applauded or (rarest of all) sold, I know many people who just seem to need to make art, in the same way as eating and breathing. But it finally came down to an article I just read in the March issue of National Geographic to help me let go of the guilt. Brain research into the “neural underpinnings of creativity” shows that creativity requires input from many parts of the brain. In their (more complicated) scientific words, “While the frontal lobes may be important for providing the judgment and flexibility of thought that underlies talent, structures in the temporal lobes and limbic system supply drive and motivation, which (may be) more important parts of the creative equation than talent itself.”

 

So now I can relax and just blame it on my genes! Maybe, or maybe not, I’ll still play with my stones and wax. And I will continue to pay my dues and read the NWSSA Newsletter cover to cover – it’s a wonderful and fun source of information and entertainment. But mostly I can feel okay about just admiring and cheering on all of you who work hard to make our world more beautiful, and have such fun in the process. Here’s to the limbic system!