Making Marks

 

The weather continued on its cold and icy theme this week, throwing in a bit of snow for good measure. It's been a bit hard to focus on one's creativity when it seems preferable to curl up and hibernate, but I'm managing. Today I painted in oils for about three hours straight, which was good except I felt like I didn't get much accomplished. (But this is always the case with oils for me. Compared to watercolor, the process can seem so slooow.) While Chad was convalescing, I finished the 528-page biography of John James Audubon that I've been reading, and was both inspired and depressed at the same time. Apparently after finally enjoying the international success of publishing "The Birds of America", his life's work, the famed artist-naturalist died from a mental collapse not too long afterwards. He was only 65. While reading it, I kept wanting to tell Audubon to slow down and take it easy -- but just like any character in a story, he wouldn't listen and insisted on continuing to trapse across the woods and swamps of 19th century America, working endless uncomfortable hours painting putrifying specimens, heedless of his own health. And because it was a biography and not a novel where the publisher needs an uplifting ending, I was left feeling bereft, without closure. I suppose most biographies are that way -- even when the writer works at making it seem a cohesive whole. Because the truth of the matter is, the narrative of most lives tends to be a study in chaos. It's only when seen through the lens of time does can one pick out a theme, and even then it can appear only faintly. I suppose that's why we must allow ourselves to be guided to make the biggest mark we can.