The Artist's Way

Zenna hopped out of the car. She was nine, and on a girls’ softball team for the first time.

“See you at noon!” I called, as she disappeared onto the diamond, and into a sea of other small girls wielding baseball bats.

I turned to her four-year-old sister, Charlotte, belted up in the back seat. “Let’s go over to my house and water the garden.” She smiled and nodded expectantly, remembering the fun of playing with the hose.

Charlotte and Zenna are half-sisters. Charlotte’s mother, Erin, was my ex-husband’s second wife. I know it gets complicated; these co-mingled families with multiple spouses and children. Suffice it to say that I felt it was important to reach out to Erin (since I was familiar with her husband), and inviting Charlotte to spend regular time with us gave our daughters a chance to feel like real sisters.

The drive from the ballpark to my house winds through a gorge and across a dam. The trees were in full flower. The green was greener than green. What a glorious morning. Perfect for playing around with the hose in the backyard with a four year old.

Halfway up the last hill, the car sputtered to a stop. Holy cow. Out of gas. One of my specialties. My artist brain gets going on a creative track in my head and before you know it the car is coasting to the berm. I once ran out of gas in the middle of Nebraska, thirty miles from any gas station. That’s another story.

This current story is so old it happened before everyone and their brother had cell phones. What to do? I got out of the car and opened the back passenger door. As I was unbuckling Charlotte’s seat belt, a young man in a Ford truck pulled up. “Looks like you could use some help.” he observed. I explained the gas problem and he detached a mobile phone from the dashboard of the truck. What were the chances? In no time at all, I’d reached my darling Darling, who agreed to bring the gas required for our rescue.

The nice young man drove away and I sat down on the curb, patting the spot next to me. Charlotte sat. She turned and peered under the hedge at our backs. She reached into the hedge and pulled out a slightly soggy tortilla, and examined it with interest. “Don’t touch that!” I squawked. Yikes, what would her mother think if she knew I was allowing her baby to play with street trash?

Charlotte looked at me with very serious, enormous brown eyes. Without saying a word, she went to the car and took out the rather large satchel she’d brought, which I assumed contained her swimsuit and nightgown. Reaching into the satchel she retrieved a large pair of yellow rubber gloves. Pulling them securely over her small hands, she returned to the curb. With a look I can only describe as triumphant, she picked up the tortilla and turned it over several times, studying it before she tossed it back into the hedge. I burst out laughing.

I think of this story often because it is a great model for our artist selves. Do you carry your satchel of assorted tools and supplies with you on your daily rounds? What do you need to pack, in order to freely examine the surprising, sweet, dirty, and random objects that cross your path?

Sometimes lessons come in simple packages, like the logic of a four year old.

When I regaled Erin with Charlotte’s story later in the day, I asked her what she thought inspired the addition of the rubber gloves to Charlotte’s repertoire. The answer was easy for her. Harriet the Spy. Now there’s a model for artists. If you’ve never read it, pick up a copy soon. And start packing your satchel.