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. Read the rest of this entry »