You know how you can talk about a thing and it sounds really good to your own ears? You might even spout off to friends or family about this thing, encouraging (harassing?) them to try it. Maybe you even consider yourself somewhat of an aficionado about this thing. Then BLAM! You actually do the thing you've been talking about and it takes on a life of its own, totally surprising you, and, in the end, teaching you once again that you really know nothing?

 Yeah, that's how I feel about art right now. I've been preaching the virtues of staying open and responding to What Is, in the context of both life and art, then a few days ago I sit down to collage with Mernie and I end up painting a page-spread turquoise, white and red, but not in a very intriguing nor compelling way. I stared at the pages. "Lookin' a lot like the French flag to me," I mumbled, thinking how nice it'd be to skip the painted pages all together and just go on to something else. But my own words hung in the air: "Just put some paint down on the page and then respond to What Is. Don't plan. Work with your impulses and at every stage ask yourself "what does this call for next?"

I was spouting advice I'd heard Teesha and Anahata say - advice I had taken at their workshops. Advice that had been very good to me, in more ways than one. Both Teesha and Anahata are a bit guerilla in their art: they simply start somewhere (anywhere) and begin cutting, pasting, painting. At each stage they respond to what's on the page, allowing the art to unfold, to tell its own story and take its own direction. I, on the other hand, can get so knicker-twisted when making a piece of art, I'm almost defeated before I begin. So hung up am I on a certain idea I have in my head that if I cannot see my way through to the "how" of creating what's in my mind, I quit. Quitting before you begin? Not so good for art-making.

So the advice of starting somewhere -anywhere- and letting the piece unfold at each stage was a life saver for me. It's changed the way I create, the way I write, the way I compose. It's had such a positive impact that it won't leave my head as I stare down at those garish red, white and turquoise pages I'd like to destroy or abort. "Work with What Is. Let the canvas tell you what's next." I'm looking down at my patriotic looking pages and am just not up to lighting firecrackers. But Mernie's sitting next to me and after spouting off this advice for the past hour as we prepared the studio for a day of collaging, I can't simply abort now. Damnit. I'm going to have to walk my talk.

And thank gawd for that particular peer pressure, for I did forge ahead, allowing the piece itself to dictate my next steps. And what can I say? I was thoroughly surprised (and pleasantly, I might add) to discover the piece telling me its own tale.

I wonder how many times this happens in art. We forfeit new and compelling wonders because we insist on going with what we know, what feels comfortable.  And how often in life do we forgo a new experience or friendship because of the persistent need to control? It baffles me how often I stand in my own way.

How often have I robbed myself of surprise and delight because I'm certain a work of art should look this way, or a friend should act that way, or the world should be other than it is? I swear it all goes back to the same rule: Curiosity over Judgement. When we judge a thing as right or wrong, when we label art or life as "good" or "bad" we cut ourselves off from all that might be. We fence ourselves in...in a little space we consider "right." But when we stay open, curious like Alice, allowing ourselves to observe and respond to each moment as it occurs, then we have a fence-less field in which to play, wander and wonder. 

I know. I know. It all sounds so simple, and then you're in front of a red, white and blue French flag of painted paper and you want to hurl technicolor frog legs. Or you're standing in line while the new 7-11 store clerk counts out eight dollars worth of pennies and you're thinking that gouging your eyes out with thumbtacks would be more pleasurable than one more minute in line. Or your friend calls for the fifth time to cancel dinner plans. You reach for your curiosity and find only judgment. You reach for your compassion and find only a petty, angry pride flexing its Tony Soprano muscles.

But you have a choice. I have a choice. Which way will we go? Upstream full of resistance and the illusion of control? Or downstream full of ease and possibility? I know one thing. I'm awfully glad I chose downstream to let this French (freak) flag fly!

 Now somebody be kind enough to remind me of this next next time I'm standing in line at the 7-11. That'll be me with the package of thumbtacks.