I am absolutely spinning from the brain dump of ideas that came from attending BlogHer 07. Paul and I have both had major epiphanies about our career paths because of the conferences. I can’t quite write about them yet, but I’d like as soon as they percolate a little bit.

One of the things I heard a lot about at the conference was in regards to “Art” and “Crafts” and how we use that terminology. What (or who) determines what (or who) gets the “art” designation and what (or who) gets the “crafts” tag? When I asked the Arts and Crafts panel that question Amy Sedaris was pretty sure that if you wanted to be an artist you probably need to be an alcoholic. If you’re sober most of the time you should probably just stick to googly eyes and be done with it. This confirms the suspicion her brother David had already planted in my soul — that if I want to be an artist I really should acquire some sort of life-threatening addiction. (Got any suggestions?)

I’m hoping to interview some art and craft bloggers about the art/craft dichotomy in the upcoming weeks. In fact, I met so many great women writer/artists that I know I’ll be highlighting them for days to come. Watch for interviews, tiny give-aways, and lots of referrals to worth-your-time blogs and worth-your-dollar products. In the meantime, here’s a vintage post from my old site that touches on the art-or-craft topic. May it bring you the kind of inspiration that spawns bravery, action, and artful living.

yours,

rachelle

Broken For You
Posted in Rites & Rituals, Priestess-y things, SFD & Arty Stuff | May 31st, 2005 at 9:25 pm

In the The Secret Life of Bees there is a character who has a unique affliction. She cannot decipher which sorrows are hers to carry and which are for others to bear. So whatever she hears, whatever sad tale she is told, it strikes her with its full grief and terror. Her sisters, good shepherds all, give her a way to express and reign in her sorrow. They help her build her very own wailing wall. With each fresh pain they add a stone, and the afflicted one is allowed to sit and sob, to write her sad tales on small scraps of paper and slip them in the hallows between the rocks. Soon the wall encircles their yard, and while it is not a foolproof system, while it does not protect her from grief, it gives her a way to live.

Being both Jew-ish and pagan-y, I have been captured by this ritual, this concretizing of sad things. So I have built a little altar in my backyard, a stack of odd stones each bearing a sad thing. But I’ve also needed a place to be angry – and so have a lot of my friends, especially my female friends. (Go figure.) So we’ve added an option to this ritualized thing. Tonya and I went to Value Village. There we found a shopping basket full of plates – flower rimmed saucers, black salad plates with leopard spots, gilt edged dinner plates, shallow leaf-shaped sauce dishes with roses in the center. (These last dainties a big splurge at 99cents each.)We came home and stacked our found treasures in an old wine crate then wedged the crate next to our small stack of stones. Catie sprinkled it all with white flowers—our sacred bittersweet space, our corner of our very own.

This is our place where God is big enough: big enough to handle our anger, big enough to not be afraid of rage, of bitterness unleashed, of unrelenting sadness over the state of things. This is where we lay it all out and say, ‘Do you really want me? Because I come with this.” This is where we hope to hear, “Yes. And do you really want me? Because I come with this too.”

Today I came into my quiet, clean office and sat at my desk. I lit a candle; I read the day’s entry at Sacred Space. The scripture for today was from Tobit, an apocryphal book that I, the good Protestant, do not know. In this story Anna, takes up her “women’s work,” weaving. We now consider weaving a “craft” rather than an “art.” But really, it is this designation as “women’s work” that has placed it into this slightly less valued category. For good weaving is art in and of itself, and Anna it seems was a sought after artist. In this story we learn that Anna the artist has completed a commission. She is given not only her pay, but a goat, this being the ancient equivalent of a very lavish tip. Her husband comes home and is shocked. He begins to berate her. How could she accept this goat? It could not possibly be for her work! It must be stolen! He feels deeply ashamed of her.

I put on my shoes. I walk out in the rain. I stand under my lilac tree.

I break this plate for Anna. Anna, unacknowledged for her skill, for the excellence of her work. Anna not seen as the fine artist and shrewd business woman, but accounted as a fool. Anna of the nimble fingers, of the good eye, of the quick mind. I imagine Jesus standing or sitting besides me. I deliberately turn and make my throw…He makes a sound, a low short hmm in his throat, heavy-weighted on the downbeat. “It is fitting,” he seems to say “So be it. Toss away.”
Anna is not held by Tobit, and neither are her tales. Her truths are her own to tell, to hold, to barter. I break this plate for Anna. As it chimes among this hardness, Anna’s story will sing.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 30th, 2007 at 1:09 pm and is filed under Magpie Girl, Small is Beautiful.




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