the songs of robins — been a long time coming

a nice enough day that we can open the windows!

My 52^nd and 53^rd acrylics are, as you can see, both pups. One is a gift, one is for putting up at the cafe and [hopefully] selling. I've already realized that my animal paintings are the closest I get to “crowd-pleasers”. So, when it comes time to make a gift, that's what I fall back on. But I've also already begun to wonder how much these paintings actually qualify as fine art. Like, do they say anything? Do they express anything about me? Maybe they're just an expression of “my love of animals”, and maybe that's enough, I dunno....

On the other hand, I can think of an artist I see on Instagram who only ever paints horses, and she quite cheerfully admits that's all she ever has any intention of painting, because that's what she loves most. And I've never questioned her legitimacy as An Artist®, so why do I need to question my own?

On the third hand, lately I've gotten more of an urge to spend at least some of my easel time working on less accessible pieces — I can feel things in me wanting to get out. I've already resigned myself to those new pieces not being understood or enjoyed, but I still feel like they'll be worth trying anyway.

For a while there, I was not sleeping well. Not enough, and what I got was very spotty and fragmented. Eventually I realized that fretting about the state of the world was keeping my mind whirring and preventing me from settling down. 

Then I saw a post from someone saying that they were cutting the news out of their life for a while, for the sake of their own peace of mind. The gist of their perspective was that they already knew by now what things were awful, so they could take that as read. They didn't really need this awfulness underlined again every day. Knowing the particular details of how the awfulness had shifted somewhat was no help to them. And these were all things that they couldn't do anything about, so more knowledge was not a guide to more action or more solutions. 

Then someone else said that they had set up filters on their social media, for similar reasons. This is not something I had ever tried myself, but I decided to now. So I did, a few days ago. 

Now, posts will appear on my social media, but instead of content I get a message saying this post contains filtered items. So I know the post is there, and it's up to me to decide if I want to see it or not. So far, I have been declining. 

And I can't help but notice that I am consistently sleeping more soundly since I began to filter out some of the awfulness. 

I understand there are those who will object. Who will tell me I have a duty to know what's going on in the world. As in, knowing everything, every detail. [Most of us who grew up in the days before the 24-hour news cycle realize that you can get by without unceasing news updates.] And there are those who will accuse me of flaunting my privilege, because it must be nice to be able to afford to ignore these things. [I don't deny that my life is privileged and blessed in numerous ways, even if I'm not rich.] 

But the people who were cutting out this influence from their online lives were framing it more in terms of self-care. Protecting their health which was suffering because of this psychic onslaught. And that's how I'm choosing to frame this for myself: self-care. Like, I don't accept that I am flaunting my privilege by eating regularly, simply because there are other people who don't. [I do count my blessings, though.] If I have the capability to nurture myself [as opposed to wallow in decadent luxury] then I will do so, as much as I am aware and able. 

Maybe that's just me.

Being stocked up on [most of the] stock-uppable things.

Knowing that, when I'm getting near the end of a container or package of something, there's another full one waiting somewhere. Not needing to worry that I might Run Out® — it's a gentle form of security, but a precious one.

I saw this quote on Mastodon a couple weeks ago that keeps coming back to me:

Art is not a sport. The point is not to be impressive at something difficult. It's expression, it's a way to focus on yourself, it's a way to get feelings out, it's a way to get ideas across. There is no cheating.

Driving alone on quiet midday streets with a quiet mind, perfect weather, and gorgeous music. In moments like that, life is as good as you could want.

Music.

Over the past year, I have occasionally had moments where I just want to sit in silence and savour it. But those moments are few and far between. Usually — and, in the past, always — I have music playing, whatever else I am doing.

And I have some on now, and just suddenly got thinking about how there is so much of it, and so much of it that I love, and how I am blessed to still have my hearing [with a technological boost] and so much opportunity to experience a thing so primally satisfying and enriching. Music is one of the closest things we have to magic in this world of ours....

I find myself thinking about this word a lot lately. Recently saw it defined as someone who indulges in something [most often an artform] without commitment. And I realize there are underlying connotations of Bad® here. Where did those connotations come from? Which gatekeepers determine how much commitment qualifies you as a true Artiste® as opposed to a dilettante?

I once heard David Bowie described as a dilettante, because of the stylistic variety of his work. He'd work with a sound for an album or two, then move on to a new one. He investigated things that interested him for as long as they interested him. He made the art he felt like making. Why is this a bad thing?

Along similar lines, I've been thinking about how amateur and professional have come to be used as terms to describe the quality of work. But, strictly speaking, neither word has anything to do with that. The amateur works for the love of the work; the professional works to earn a living. Full stop. There are amateurs whose work is astonishingly accomplished and wonderful, and professionals who manage to make a career doing work that is not particularly good.

I feel like it's time to reclaim these words. The value judgments we've attached to them are not inherent to the terms themselves: they are arbitrary additions which can be done without. I am a dilettante, and quite content to be one.