Behavioral Therapy for Sufferers of AADD (Artistic Attention Deficit Disorder)

I do not have ADD. I am generally a pretty focused person, but when it comes to my artwork, my train of thought is about as steady as a hamster's. For as measured as my day-to-day personality is, my creative mind is like a two-year-old tugging my hand through life, saying "What's that?!? Oooooh what's that?!?" before I have a chance to even answer. I will begin what seems like a promising series of paintings or a certain process or a particular ceramics aesthetic, and just when I think I've finally found "my thing," I lose steam or find myself diverted on to working with oil pastels or cutting and assembling snips of paper.

Overall, I try to see this as a strength. I am curious about many things. I am multi-faceted. This works for me as a teacher, since teachers have to be able to show drawing, painting, collaging, printmaking, sculpture, and ceramics techniques. For that, I am glad. However in the fine arts world, this kind of hopscotching around is frowned upon. You need to be able to develop a series, a style, and something that makes collectors recognize you. You need to be able to delve deeply into your art of choice and make some real discoveries digging around down there. So what's someone with AADD (Artistic Attention Deficit Disorder) to do? Well, I've gone through many stages of excitement, disappointment, hope, and creative blockages that I'm going to share with you my coping strategies. Some of them are old hat, some of them may make something click for you. If I can help a fellow kindred spirit out there, I'm happy to have been of service.

If you feel excited about your newest venture...

That's awesome! Go with it. Give it a try. If you don't have time, write down your idea somewhere or bookmark or pin some images. Keeping these for a while (even after you may lose interest in the idea) is handy for when you may cycle back to this in the future. Don't buy too many supplies at first. Do small works and test things out quickly and cheaply. As you find your way and an idea that you can latch onto, make your works a little bigger and more involved. Post them to public forums and see what kind of response you get, but don't do this until you feel kind of comfortable with your work. If you are still early on in the process of discovery, even the smallest criticisms or questions will sting like Listerine in your eye. Keep it as loose and flowing as you can. Don't try to figure it all out too early. Avoid the impulse to overreach with connections that will hem your next work in. Let it happen naturally and once you have some pieces under your belt, spread them all out and see what seems to be occurring. Then you can start putting together/reworking an artist statement, thinking about the next step or where to show and the questions below.

Questions to ask yourself:
Does this feel like a series that could continue to grow in a related direction? What else can I do with this?
Do I like the work? Does it excite me? Is the process enjoyable or at least tolerable and worth the final outcome?
Where does this work belong (gallery, home, street)? Would someone pay me to do this? Does this have commercial implications?
How is this work unique to me? Am I just putting a bird on it?
How did this work surprise me?
Would I want to live with this work myself, or is it that I just have the impulse to make it and then never see it again?

This last question is tricky. I once asked a college art instructor if it mattered whether or not the artist wanted to live with his/her own pieces. He couldn't come up with an answer at the time. I've thought about it over the years, and while I won't give a definitive yes or no, what I have found is that one way or another, you as an artist will be living with your pieces. The ones that don't sell. They will hang on your walls or be stuck behind furniture or be stacked in your attic. The ones that do sell and reside in your computer image files, your website, and gallery programs next to your name. So at least for me, the newest and one of the most pressing questions I ask myself as I am mixing colors, picking sizes, and deciding on subject is, "Do I want to live with this?" Of course, this avenue of working would eliminate a lot of wonderful pieces that are out there and very happily residing in gallery spaces and museums. But I still say until you are sure of where your art is going, make it so that you don't mind having it around.

And please, for the love of all that is holy, do not ask yourself these questions when you are still in the idea stage. Please please MAKE something first. I have spent too many hours pondering possible projects in my head, getting very excited about them, thinking about all of these questions right away, and then nixing the whole thing before I did a stitch of art. I would end up soothing my depressed self with hot tea, scrap paper with tiny plans and sketches scattered and crumpled on my desk. You'll drive yourself crazy this way.

What to do if you have lost steam...
This depends. If you have lost steam for a project because you are on to the next exciting thing, don't beat yourself up. Carefully put away the materials of the last venture (don't get rid of them yet!) and give yourself permission to come back to it if you feel the urge. It's not a closed door, a burnt bridge, or a failure. It is one more step closer to you figuring out what it is you enjoy doing. Unlike your college years, an ex, or that great little Mom and Pop joint, it's always still there if you want to return.

If you are simply feeling adrift, unable or unwilling to make anything, that's ok, too. Getting down on yourself for feeling uncreative doesn't get anyone's creative juices flowing. Scale back and don't demand too much of yourself. Keep a sketchbook. No, really. I know everyone says/demands it. But a sketchbook doesn't have to be filled with da Vinciesque anatomical sketches and inventions. Allow yourself to doodle. Try a mandala. smear some paint in there and chop it up later. Pull out the pages you hate or work over them. Make something ugly and move on with your life. Also, read something just because you want to. Get outside. Take a picture. Take a shower. Look at art you like and ask yourself why you like it. Look back at past ideas you had. Talk to artistic friends about their art. Or stop thinking about art all together for a spell. Go do something with easy answers and predictability. It will all come back around. Open your little hamster mind to it when the time is right. Just remember to make time for it when the floodgates open again.

Weeding Out

     The weeds have gotten out of control with this recent surge of misty weather, so I spent a good chunk of the morning crouching, pulling, and generally getting very muddy. It's a funny thing when there is this dedicated spot of time that is spent doing a relatively menial task with no other distractions. I could have put on music, but I like to hear the birds and I've been trying to regain my focus lately. So what happens is that lots of thoughts run through my head. Much of the time, for some sadistic reason, they are not so pleasant thoughts. I could be thinking about the lovely long stretch of summer ahead, or travel plans, or art ideas, but no. Anxious thoughts, angry thoughts, are what begin to bubble up in my mind like some putrid tar pit. I suppose they need a chance to air out. I've gotten into the habit of always having something going on in front of me - screens, books, radio, list-making - that I have neglected some of the things that I believe are important to good mental health. This might include setting an intention for the day as I learned in yoga, or staying quiet enough to hear the rain, or sifting through some emotional baggage to put a few things to rest.

     So there I was, squatting, and pulling weeds, and getting muddy, and probably furrowing my brow at the thoughts that percolated just behind it. The weeds were endless, my back hurt, and I could feel the mud squashing through my gloves. Then I started piling up the collected weeds around the bottoms of my tomato plants like my grandmotherly Mennonite friend had shown me a few summers ago. She had explained that the weeds dry up, act like a mulch, and help the plant roots stay moist in hot weather. When I would complain about the amount of weeds my garden generated, she would look on the bright side, saying that they served a good purpose for the other plants. Her theory was that everything that came out of the garden should go back into the garden. After that, I was never able to look at the weeds quite the same way again. Instead of feeling like a never ending battle, weeding started feeling like getting something useful for free.

     The world is full of metaphors. No matter if you're pondering the ocean tides or plugging away in the mud, the rhythm of the earth can teach us a lot about our lives. If we were as smart as animals, we would learn to accept the moment as it is and be exceedingly grateful for the simple opportunity to roll in the grass. But with our big human brains, we need lots of reminders, and they are all around us. Just as I learned to be grateful for the weeds, I saw that I could be grateful for the other things that felt thorny in my life. Difficult people, situations, events - they are all sign posts for the ways we ask to be guided.

     Instead of mulling over those people or situations, trying to figure out what went wrong or why they weren't there or who was to blame, I was able to stop the cycle with a thank you. Thank you for taking away these people or situations that no longer serve my greatest good. Thank you for taking away opportunities that would not serve the path I am meant to be on. I want to be the best version of myself and travel a path that will help me to become more fully who I am. Sometimes people are meant to leave our lives, and difficult situations can push or bump us back onto the right path. It doesn't feel great, but it is a loud signal that we most likely asked for. Guide me, show me a sign, help me...I know I mentally say it. I'm trying to realize that the residual feelings are just a side effect. They are a learning tool or a reinforcement of the main message: Not that. Not them. The Universe has weeded them out for you, and now they are helping you grow. Gratitude is something I have to remind myself of, but when I do, I also remember how powerful it is.

Heirlooms

They have been in our family for generations. Or perhaps I expect that they will be, from here on out. My grandmother’s costume jewelry and her pastel colored loveseat. My grandfather’s bipolar disorder and love of squirrels. The recipe for Moon Cookies. The braided rugs that were as knotted as my Pop Pop’s knuckles. Whatever newest technology that will deliver “Brighton Beach Memoirs” and “Stealing Home.” An awareness of all of the lyrics to “More Than Words.” These are the things that I will point to and tell my kids – that’s us. That’s our family.

Then there are other things - important things - that I wonder what will happen to them when the time comes. What does a person do with the ashes of several beloved pets? Right now they live with us, in small ornate boxes, next to their pictures and the television. It feels right to have them in our cozy space, but instead of being curled up at our feet, they are packed neatly away on shelves. I cannot bring myself to think about what is to be done with them, because I cannot bring myself to think of the event that would force me to think about such things.

There are also the photo albums. I will show them to my children and explain that once upon a time, we had photographs that we could hold in our hands and hang on walls and put in books. There are pictures from the 70s, the telltale orange cast of that photo development technology. They have rounded corners and matte finishes. They are filled with young versions of my mother and people who I don't know, but who seem happy and somehow stylish in their crisp polyester outfits. They are laughing or looking at the camera with the awareness of the person behind it or the preciousness of film. They are wearing makeup and eating from nice dishes, because this was some sort of occasion where people were taking pictures. The fattest photo albums are filled with baby pictures of myself and my brother. They are cracking away from their binding after too many viewings by too many versions of ourselves through the years. Will he take his and I take mine? Or will we take each other's, so that we can remember when we are living states apart?

The various Christmas ornaments have always been owned by one of us in our heads, whether or not they were originally bought for us. Some are very clear. They are gingerbread people who wear "Daughter" or "Son" on their chests. They are school pictures set in crumbling clay. They are our names painted on glass balls with confetti inside. Others are vaguely but seriously connected to us through a story, a memory, or our simple insistence on always being the one to hang it on the tree as we turn on its music or pull its cord or sit with it and remember.

None of it means anything to anyone but us. If, years down the road, these things were to end up in a consignment store, they wouldn't catch much of a second glance or more than fifty cents. But to us, these fragments are precious because they remind us of ourselves. For now, however, the heirlooms I focus on are the seeds I put into the ground. They are unaltered, self-propagating plants that make ugly, delicious tomatoes, or strange colors of vegetation that have been passed down for generations. They are not made by corporations to resist pesticides, and they are not big, beautiful prizewinners at the county fair. They are just something that comes from my own backyard where the Sesame Street swing set used to sit until it rusted. They give us fresh salads and jewels of berries to eat on the picnic table in the unrelenting summer heat. I suspect that in some number of years, I will hear the names - Amish Paste, Black Prince, Green Zebra - and feel much the same as when I twist the Christmas ornament in my fingers.

Where is There?

     Where do our dreams come from, and how do we know when we've reached them? I sometimes feel as if I've spent most of my life spinning in orbit all around my dreams, but never quite knowing how to land on them. They've become like faraway stars, and I start to think that if I really shoot myself straight at one, I'll burn right up. I always stay close of course, believing that if I do something that is somehow related to what I really want, that will be good enough. But there's always a striving, a mild dissatisfaction.

      I've realized, too, that I have to remember to define my own version of success for myself. It's easy enough to say that promotions, titles, big money, a happy marriage, kids, vacations, and such and such mean you're successful. But I think too that success is something we often wait to just feel, thinking that it will be a thing that happens to us. My mind works in such a way that if I don't remember to clearly define my expectations/goals/etc. that I will be on a perpetual treadmill, never feeling like I've gotten anywhere valid. Surprisingly enough, I found an amazingly similar sentiment in a lecture given by John Mayer only a few days after this same light bulb went off in my head. It's smart and simple, probably the way most things should be: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JXSLTdcH22k

     I think this idea is especially important for those on creative career tracks. I can't speak to others' experiences, but I know as an artist, that it is really difficult to feel successful if you aren't selling out shows or getting into prestigious galleries or being featured in popular art media. Maybe that's just me. I can feel an inward satisfaction when I make a piece I believe in, and it certainly fulfills a creative need that I have inside. However, at some point, it's human nature to want some outward recognition. So if these things aren't happening, and you're feeling bad about it, I think you need to decide if that is really how you determine your success, or if maybe that isn't what you are even aiming for at all. Taking a step back and trying to see an end point that you can clearly recognize could very well be the answer.

     Important, too, is remembering what your real dreams were in the first place. So for me, here they are:

I want to be a published author/illustrator. This one is interesting, because it is a deceptively new goal that is actually quite old. I actually thought about going to school for illustration, but that somehow felt too specific in case I didn't wind up liking it or being any good at it. I've also always enjoyed writing. I had considered originally being an English major. I always received compliments on my writing from my teachers. I can't say I love the process as much as I do with visual art, but it is a much easier way for me to communicate than face to face with people. I also happen to think that everyone should have access to art, not just those who are wealthy enough to buy originals. Print it up, ship it out, let everyone get a piece of the pie. This particular dream feels like one that is a long process, not something to be rushed.

I want to make art that is skillful and insightful, but that I also want to put in my own house. I once asked a professor if there was something wrong with making art that you had the impulse to make, but then not actually wanting to live with it. In the functional ceramics world, yes, this can be a problem perhaps. Though I don't think anyone would expect Damien Hirst to want to live with his works. Or does he? I'm just a bit too lazy to do the research. But you get the point. Different art for different purposes. I want mine to be both good and inviting.

I want to educate. It's sometimes difficult for me to say that because the very verb has become something that seems to mean cramming information into someone's reluctant head for a test. I don't want to do it that way. I want to share information. I want to spark thought. I want to have a discourse. I think we're all still trying to figure out the best mode for this, but maybe it's somewhere between NPR and feeling dirt between our own fingers.

     I recently unearthed a small pile of little books I had written in elementary school. The teachers had typed them up for the students, and then we illustrated them. One of my favorites is about all of the things I wanted to do in life. The first page shows me onstage, bright red curtains drawn open, and my arms are outstretched. I'm not sure if I wanted to dance, or sing, or act, but part of me thinks that I just wanted to be applauded. Another page shows me simply knitting stockings by a fireplace. I think that about sums it up.

Having It All

     There is a common question for many women of my generation and the one before as to whether or not we can indeed have it all. Can we be successful in a career and manage to raise a family? Some people have an easier time simply choosing one and being happy with it. Others attempt both and subsequently may feel completely inadequate at both. As a young woman continually working at my career and hoping to one day also have a family, this question has bobbed up to the surface numerous times since they first started asking me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

     I remember thinking, however erroneously, that it made no sense to simply go from being a child in your family of origin to raising your own kids. I thought about how it felt small in the wider scope of the world, to have impact only on your own lineage rather than making waves in your field of choice. I think I'm coming around to better understanding the things that make life important, but really, that seems to be what the essence of this question is - How can I make my life matter?

     In an interview I heard today, Justice Sonia Sotomayor summed it up in a way that snapped on the bare lightbulb hanging in my head:
     "This whole continuing question about whether women can "have it all" — I think it's the wrong question. I think the right question should be, "What makes you happy as a person? Do you want to not 'have it all' but to have both in your life in an imperfect way?" Because if the question presupposes that you're going to do both and be equally happy at every moment, it's a false question.
It's a compromise; it's a balance; it's figuring out what's the most important thing you have to give at that moment and to what. All of that is a constant work in progress."
Read more of the interview here.

     I just love that. I think she takes us a step beyond the liberation of women in the workplace into women breaking apart the format of Family vs. Career entirely. It is not about finding oneself at a single crossroads at a certain crucial time, but rather, traveling along two interwoven paths that may allow for a third option.

A Letter To Myself, For When Life Feels Tangled

Hello. Things are rough. Or you're scared. Or nothing seems to feel right.

This is you writing. Remember that you're still you, no matter the temporary outer casing. The moments of childhood happiness, milestones, successes, surprises, joy, motivation - it is all inside of you all the time. Now what you need to do is turn your insides back into your outsides. Do these things:

1. Do something just because it feels good, whether you need/should do it or not. Have a cup of coffee. Go to the farmer's market. Buy something you want. Go for a walk with your camera. Put on loud music and dance. Be careful not to hurt yourself. Go punch something a million times. Also be careful not to hurt yourself. Take a long bath with a trashy magazine.

2. Do some arting. Make some art. Make scribbly, no-one-need-ever-see-it-but-it-might-also-be-awesome art. Look at art blogs. Wander through a gallery. Buy a museum ticket. Watch an indie film. Go to an art complex. Go to First Friday.

3. Make a Fear Flowchart. What are you afraid of? Break it down. Talk yourself out of each one. Fear is the only thing standing in your way.

4. Get spiritual. Find a new church. Play beautiful hymns. Pray. Talk to angels. Look for fairies.

5. Write in your gratitude journal. Remember that when we start recognizing our gratitude for all we have, we open the door for more blessings.

6. Remember the big picture. Most things are temporary. Feed your soul first.