Today I was rooting around in my studio for my copy of a very famous book I wanted to use in a piece I’m working on. During my search I came across a sketchbook long ago forgotten. This sketchbook was sitting next to another sketchbook and like the crumbs of bread left for Hansel and Gretel, I found sketchbook after sketchbook. After a good look around my studio, I found no less than FORTY-SEVEN. That’s roughly one for every year of my life. Some were sketchbooks were purchased, and some were gifts. There are handmade books, lined books, and one is even made of paper I pulped and poured myself and isn’t even bound to its crafted cover—but here’s the kicker: they’re almost all nearly empty.

It’s odd for me to think that I work as a full time artist now when I didn't draw much at all as a young adult. In high school I used to draw these boxes across the cover of every notebook and in the margin of every piece of paper. On and on they would go, box after box, my brain finding comfort in the repetitive movement of my hand across the page.

I used to teach a photgraphy unit to my 7th graders every year and I taught them that if they didn’t know what to photograph to get in close. Focus on what’s in front of you. Notice all the details. See how the light casts shadows in the place you find yourself right now? I’m currently staring at the wind blowing snow off of the roof of the house across the street. Every time the wind gusts, little crystaline flakes are cast into the air where they catch the sunlight. It looks like a 1st grader heaving glitter into the air. I’ve seen actual 1st graders do this, so I’m an expert on the physics of gravity+1st graders+glitter…

Love cut and glued her name in large red letters and placed them near the top. She carefully folded the paper in the center then cut perfectly symetrical hearts along the folded edge. She repeated the steps with red, pink, and white, noticing how adding more hearts to the bag made her’s look fancier. She anticipated how its brightness would call to her from across the room once it was hung up on the rail beneath the chalkboard.

Their fingers were sticky with the remants of Elmer’s white glue and the top had not been screwed down properly. There were faint smudges along the creases of each card where the glue had picked up dust transfered their from their fingers. Paper hearts littered the floor.

People often ask me, “Where does your creativity come from?” They usually ask this in a exasperated manner after they’ve denigrated their own art making skills. I used to not give this question much thought and say something like, “Oh, I’ve always just been this way!” then I’d add an awkward and apologetic smile for being so different and weird. As the years have rolled on, I’ve thought about this question a lot, and I’m happy to say I have some answers about where creativity comes from and you’re probably not going to like them.

Anyway, I was in the midst of an A-Level self rebuke, listing all the ways I was falling short, when the bored voice of my inner being (I call her Doreen), pointed her mid-morning cigarette in my face and said in the voice that only lifelong smokers know, “Honey, for Christ’s sake, put the big stick down.”

I’ve taught a wide array of students over the years and I’ve learned that five-year-people are basically the same as twenty-five year old people—the difference being that twenty-five year old people have a bit bigger bank accounts and smidge more autonomy—and maybe they can drive--but basically that’s the only fundamental difference. Regardless, we’re all basically just big kids, and the sooner we realize that, the sooner we can accept that the world could be changed significantly for the better if we all had a snack and a nap every day at the same time.

I recently came across an old video tape of me at seven years old. My dad was asking me what I wanted to do “when I grew up”. I said, “I want to write stories and draw them, I want to be an artist.” I wanted to draw worlds filled with little houses of safety. It would be a long road before I would pursue it full time. I now call myself an Artist, and I’m still figuring out exactly what that means. So far, I’ve found that it’s a combination of courage, daily commitment to the work, semi-regular bouts of crippling self doubt, and a complete lack of caring what anyone else thinks. Stepping into those paint-spattered Birkenstocks takes time.

I am transfixed. The look on his face isn’t decipherable. Is he bored? Annoyed? I can’t tell. I am somewhat of an expert in facial expressions. My house isn’t a peaceful one, and my safety depends on reading people. It bothers me I can’t tell what he is thinking. I step closer trying to understand his face. As I approach, the class catches up with me, and the teacher points out a different painting on an adjacent wall. I can’t turn away from this face until I understand it. Since no one is paying attention to me, I get close enough to the painting to touch but—but I don’t. The face is made up of little blobs which are layered over one another to create lines, depth, and shadow. I look closer, and as I do I exclaim…