I just had an artistic mess revelation.
Well, it’s not so much a revelation about the artistic qualities of mess, as much a revelation about being artistic and messed up and making a mess.
Bear with me, this might just be going somewhere.
I was feeling stressed today – no need to go into why – so pretty much fell on my scrap table the minute I had the chance.
It’s pure therapy for me and pretty much the only activity guaranteed to restore me to myself.
I wanted to make a page about me, that felt like me. I wonder if that makes sense?
So I started with a ‘Suse blue’ background, then added a fairly tidy grid that became increasingly layered and quirky… not unlike me.
At the end, I raided Kitty’s scraps stash for something black and white to go along the edge.
“The wrong side of a branding strip,” I decided, “That’s what I want: something a little bit quietly weird.”
Quietly weird: again, not unlike me.
“Gosh, what a pretty jumble,” I thought as I stood back to survey the final page.
Then I looked at my desk area and gulped. Notice that you’re not getting a photo of that particular hot mess.
So then it struck me: part of my internal messiness relates to my battling conflicting desires.
I crave a beautiful, ordered house, a visually put-together online presence and pretty, (somewhat) ordered layouts – and yet I still desperately need to get out the carnival of chaos inside of me.
Which, of course, happens via making a total mess.
So – I guess I’m:
“…a colourful, quirky, quietly weird (yet tidy) mess maker, who makes a physical mess as she escapes her feelings of internal mess, only to have those feelings swiftly replaced by panic at the very real physical mess she’s made while de-messing.”
Gosh, what a mess.