Gifted

Aviator. Charcoal/ graphite.

Happy Birthday Mother!  Today I would like to thank-you for something, a rare gift that you gave me when I was small, a gift that I use everyday.  A gift that I *try* to explain and pass on to my students- sometimes more successfully than others- the twin gifts of imagination and creativity.

These are difficult things to define, understand, explain let alone teach and give- they are intangibles yet necessary as life blood to any artist or thinker- and needed in some degree by everyone.  Imagination, defined, is the ability to mentally create new experiences/ concepts/ sensations that are not based in actual sensory information.  In other words, to construct a mental experience that is not physically sensed at the time.  Awk...that definition sounds awkward, scientific....not imaginative at all.   Try again.  Imagination is the ability to live through the minds eye.  To create detailed worlds, stories and experiences mentally.  Better- not quite there, but better. One last time:  Image-Nation.  I-Mage-Nation.  Think about that- a nation constructed of images, a nation created by individual magic.  Obscure, but closer to how I think about it~

In academic literature, imagination is taught and fostered through story.  The ability to listen to text, read text, and create mental images of that text that are experienced as quasi-real.  It is that wonderful leap where you are listening or reading and the mind takes over- you no longer see the words on the page but live the story in your mind.  It happens as well when you view something- a movie, artwork, event- and the mind plays with it, retelling and recreating, long after the physical experience is over.  Your creation keeps going- 

The darkside of imagination- for all gifts have a double edge- is worry.  There is a quote I came across yesterday, "Worry is misuse of imagination".  This is very true- experiences running away in the opposite direction- but yet needed.  The worries that we rehearse in our imaginations help prepare us to handle crisis, to formulate some sort of plan so we don't give in to all out despair and panic. Even a double edge can be bright.

Mother gave me the gift of imagination- fostered through reading and storytelling, long adventures in the car, encouraging me to use it for entertainment.  I know that she worried (still does) that I was isolated from other kids mostly when I was little, and that I can be socially awkward- but fear not.  I learned how to use my imagination to entertain myself and *that* is priceless- I would rather that than a million play dates long forgotten.  It is the gift that ensured that no matter what, I am never, ever, ever bored.

Creativity is imagination in action, according to me.  It is the ability to transfer what is in your mind into the world, to create something new- be it an actual object, or perspective, or solution or what have you.  To take your visions and make them tangible  combine them with knowledge and experience, give them life through technique. My imagination (and obsessive love of horses) let me imagine a stable full of them that would run beside the car, leaping over obstacles, each with stories, virtues, vices, names... instead of imaginary friends, I had imaginary horses.  My curiosity led me to learn about horses- read about them, name the breeds, colors, anatomy.  The great horses of reality- Man O'War was a favorite- and story 'National Velvet', 'Black Beauty'- fused the knowledge with the imagination.  I collected horse statues, read horse magazines, begged constantly (which must of been hard- I wanted one so bad, and we did not have anywhere close to the means or place to keep a horse), eventually learned to ride and then finally- in my twenties- had my own horse. But the greatest part of the horse obsession was *not* my knowledge of horses, or my less-than-adequate riding skills, but how that keystone of imagination sparked creativity.  I learned to draw because I loved horses- creating them in my mind was fun, but not enough.  Other peoples stories, models, pictures, even other peoples real horses- not enough. I had to create my own.  I drew them over and over and over.  I applied everything I knew and learned, everything that I imagined, put it down on paper.  I remember drawing horses when I was very young at Headacher, on the kitchen counter at Jack's house, at school, at home, any chance I got.  I need to dig out my old journals and sketchbooks and find some of those drawings- I don't have the very early ones, but I do have some from middle school on.  

The magic in that was not learning how to draw a realistic horse, though I did and I still can.  When I was drawing the horses I didn't care about them being realistic so much, as their stories and personalities.  Their colors, coats, names, tack, expressions, likes/dislikes- a whole world.  I can still name some of them: Sirocco (grey stallion, the leader), Apache (black), Scotland (Appaloosa), Buck (buckskin quarter horse), Diamond (spoiled pony that I didn't like much.  Funny to create something you didn't like).  Others- it sounds crazy I know, but it is my gift and my treasure.

I imagined and created other things of course- all with Mother's help and blessing.  The ladybug house on the rocks in the pasture, the Wishing Well that served as my 'outside oven' for culinary treats made of mud and grass.  The huge Barbie house made out of a cardboard box and carefully furnished with home made furniture created from butter tins, spray caps, fabric- a mod, wonderful house ever so much better than the pink plastic dream house.  Turning the rocking chair upside down in the living room to create a gypsy boat/wagon/hut full of dolls and dishes- while I was dressed to the nines in a blonde wig, white confirmation dress and small apron printed with strawberries...and a bonnet.  (Where did those things come from?  I can't imagine anyone in the family owning any of them~).   And she was there when my imagination turned bad- when I was afraid of ghosts and goblins, furniture that moved, paintings with critical eyes.  I'm still afraid of those things, (well, not ghosts- rather like them, and goblins can be useful)- but I learned that it is ok sometimes to imagine scary stuff.  That a good ghost story is worth the thrill of being spooked- and that imagined fear can be a healthy means to ensure against risky behavior.  (Like getting out of bed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Because I was afraid of the table in the hall at Headacher, I don't think I *ever* went to the bathroom during the night. I confess that I still dream about that table- it is beautiful, but I am very, very, very glad that it lives in Barbies home and guards her front door.  If anyone ever tries to break in to get her, the table will get them first. Seriously.)

I have written and written this morning- and it feels so wonderful to do so.  Thank-you Mother for my gifts that you gave me, that turned me into an artist and scholar, that taught me the magic to create my own worlds.  I love you.