On writers who are also artists, and live wedding painting

It’s a crazy world. I have somehow gotten myself involved in live wedding painting.

When my sister heard about it, she drafted me into it. To my endless surprise, I have spent the last year working on opening a business with her, and practicing watercolor portraits. The imposter syndrome is real. Aren’t I a writer? Why is art so hard? I don’t remember it being this hard before. I think now, if someone is going to be paying for it, I want to be really sure that they are happy. It adds an element of pressure, whereas before, the art could all be on post-its, of silly people with pants on their heads, or whatever.

What is live wedding painting, you ask? You are not alone in asking.

A live wedding painter is entertainment at the wedding. They will paint anything the couple hired them to paint: usually the venue, and the couple at the altar, or the first kiss, or the first dance. Often certain family members will be requested to be added in, like the grandparents, or someone who has recently passed. It’s really fun to watch the painting happen at the venue. My sister will be doing that part, in oils.

My specialty will be watercolors. I’ll be painting little guest portrait favors, as fast as I can, all night. It’s going to be fun to see and draw all the different faces at the weddings. If someone doesn’t like their own face, they could ask me to draw a picture of their dog, or any other photo in their phone, or their phone. I try to keep them all under six minutes, and I know I can do them faster with a little more practice. This is faster than a lot of wedding portrait favor painters, and a personal point of pride. The more people I can draw in a short amount of time, the more fun everyone will have.

I’m proud that my watercolor guest portraits don’t look like anyone else’s. On the other hand… my portraits don’t look like anyone else’s, lol. They have an edge. I’m wondering if it will even fly with the wedding crowd. The trend seems to be (admittedly) cute little faceless fashion portraits. Yeah. But I like people, and all their wonderful little faces! Not fashion. So there.

Speed portraits by me. These were done a while ago, at 8 minutes or less per face

One interesting thing is, if you practice two kinds of art, you can cross-apply the skills from one toward the other. Sometimes, when I get stuck writing, I’ll close my eyes and keep typing. This allows me to turn off my critic and just stream of consciousness. Staying in motion is the hardest part, and this greases the tracks.

I’ve applied similar strategies to art. No, I don’t close my eyes and draw, haha. Sometimes I wish I could, heh. However, I’ve found that if I work in dim lighting, interesting things happen. When I turn the lights back up, there’s always a fun surprise in the linework that I hadn’t noticed and probably would not have intentionally made.

Also, thanks to ADD, novelty keeps me going. A new brush, a new paper, a new medium, and new subject. Today, we practice writing poems about our toes. Tomorrow, we practice drawing toes. In the end, it all comes back around to toes.

Did you know that Victor Hugo, aside from being a great writer, also made excellent creepy art? All those hours he spent describing sewers and castle battlements? I thought it was just because he was paid by the word. As it turns out, he spent the rest of his free time drawing sewers and castle battlements. He was really, actually into sewers and castle battlements. A true creative, he would cobble together art from his spilled drink, the ashes from the fire, whatever was at hand.

NOT my art. Victor Hugo’s art.
More of Victor Hugo’s art.

Do you think there’s a common quality to art by writers? All I know is, their art, although not always beautiful, is almost always interesting. As for me, I’ve found that there’s still a little bit of storytelling quality to what I do.

Bright abstract watercolor and ink portraits. By me

So that’s why I haven’t been doing a whole lot of creative writing, except, you can bet we have the best-damn-written wedding painter website in the neighborhood: www.silveysistersfineart.com.

I’m so grateful to you, my safe little bubble of writers and readers. I wanted to tell you about this and post about it, but I didn’t want to spam you either.

That being said… I do take commissions 😀 Think about Christmas. Think about maybe if you like my art, or writing. If you mention Fresh Hell in your request, I would do something special for you. I would take a percentage off any of my part of the regular live wedding painting services or custom commissions from photos. Or, even though it’s not advertised, I could write out one of my poems for you, on fine paper… in shimmer ink. Oh my gosh shimmer ink. Please ask me to do anything in shimmer ink. I could pour it in my eyeballs, or drink it. I wouldn’t do that for you, though. I would do that for myself.

I also drew this Bassett Hound in shimmer ink, yassssssss

You are my special peoples and I love you forever.

Impressions of a River

We walked on a sandbar

stepped where a blue heron stepped

the four lines where its foot fell

pressed into crackles by our weight.

 

We found warm shallows

where life abounded

mollusks the size of our palms

had pulled themselves across the floor

doodling blind, directionless lines

searching for I do not know what

 

We found a gar

dried to leather

black as driftwood in the moist sunshine

sunken eyes like leather coins

expressionless, shriveling down

to its primeval skull.

 

We found wet clay 

as deep as our knees

We mired ourselves on purpose

and struggled back out again

Pretending we were dinosaurs

Or maybe the making

of some new fossil

 

Everything on the riverbank leaves a trace

Every path is printed

 

That is until

the water rises, falls

and refreshes itself.

Each rainfall rinsing

the palette clean.


Journal – Just keeping up

The coffee is jumping inside of me
or maybe that’s just my own hormones
something is jumping inside of me
it’s leaping and touching the ceiling.

Yesterday it dragged the floor.
It sure is nice to have emotions again
dulce et decorum est
to have emotions again

I wonder who is talking
through my head
through my hands

I speak up at work now
everyone tells me how friendly I am
how welcoming
they appreciate my vocalness
I am well liked by my peers
well
that’s good
I guess.
I still have little anxieties
I used to have big anxieties
so that’s better.
I’m writing another novel
aren’t we proud?
I ran two miles
it hurt a little
but not much
I got all my shit together.
all. my. shit. together.

the cat desperately tries to crawl on my lap
and I write with one hand
desperately trying to keep him off my keyboard

all
my
shit
together

So why is this knot in my stomach?
Why is my hair falling out?
Why do I spend my days in industry,
To hide from the nights
in darkness?

I’m feeling much better.
I’ve got it all under control.
Don’t worry about me.
I used to be worse, much worse.
It’s nice to have feelings again.
I spent a whole year with no ups or downs
creatively, emotionally, just…
empty.
And I asked myself,
Is this happiness?

Now I feel again
I’m getting things done
more than ever
trying to squash the anxiety in my chest, in my belly
running from the depression
breathing through the mania
and I ask myself
Is this happiness??

Don’t worry about me.
I’m fine.
I’ve been here before.
Lower, higher, much worse, much better, too much better.
I’m probably just at normal human levels now.
Is that
What happiness is?

Maybe happiness can only be found
in others.
Writing gives me a feeling of completion
of working towards my life ambitions
being who I should be.
People give me that oxytocin boost
linked in love
I’ve invested myself in people this year
now I know what they mean
now I know what they do for me
and how much I need them.
Is that
What happiness is?

Maybe asking
is asking
for trouble.


We sat on our hill and she taught me a song

 

We sat on our hill and she taught me a song.

I remember her laugh when I got the words wrong,

I remember the way the grass tickled our feet,

And the flowers I tucked in her hair looked so sweet,

But I ruefully deem the dream as incomplete.

Though deep I have delved and long I have sought,

I cannot recall what she patiently taught.

 

 

 

 


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