Pass the wine, Antonio…
This weekend, I was excited and raring to go about working on several craft and art projects that have been brewing below the surface for a while now. I was determined to make some headway in laying in stores for the upcoming craft show season. As I am a notorious procrastinator and it is only early August for goodness sake, I was quite proud of myself for turning down invites to enjoy myself this weekend (Dinner? No, thank you, I have work to do. A movie? Couldn’t possibly, must produce!). The shame is I don’t get many invites as it is and I should have gone out and had a good time. Instead, I had a Salieri weekend.
I’m sure we all remember the movie Amadeus. What I took away from that movie was not an appreciation for the genius of Mozart but complete and utter sympathy for Salieri – a good artist who had the misfortune of being painfully aware of what he perceived as his own deficits in comparison to the blazing talent of Mozart. In the movie, Salieri proclaims himself the “patron saint of mediocrity.” He and I could have shared a drink or two or three this weekend and wallowed in our misery.
It was bad. Drawings dripped out of me like wet sand from the bottom of a tin pail. The lines were weak, uncontrolled and timid looking, the proportions were off and I became too scared to continue drawing lest I make myself feel worse than I already did.
The craft projects came out crude and rough and with no finesse. And I became frustrated and sad and angry at myself for my lack of ability. Nothing was good enough and eventually around nine or ten that evening, I gave up. There is a singular frustration at not being able to produce what you know you should be able to. I sometimes marvel at those who are always singing their own praises and wonder do they have days like I had – do they doubt themselves and are they able to see their work as less than genius.
Yes, I know I lean towards the hypercritical but I also know that there are times when I shouldn’t even bother attempting to produce. The muse is not with me, my hand is not being led and I am so far out of the zone that I’m sitting in the bleachers. And that was my Saturday. I eventually gave up, made myself a picada (a little something to knosh on – good cheese, garlic, grilled peppers, crackers – you know, a little this and a little that) and got myself a nice big glass of Argentine malbec wine (must support the economy of Mendoza, you know). I sat myself down to watch “Blow Dry” – a quirky little movie with Bill Nighy, Natasha Richardson, Josh Hartnett and uhm, who was that other guy, oh yea, Alan Rickman (not their best work but entertaining nonetheless – I wasn’t in the mood for greatness from anybody at that point).
Don’t think I’m giving up. I know that I can draw, and I know that I am more than capable of producing craft items of worth. It’s just that some times it becomes painfully obvious to me that my drawings will never have the strong beautiful lines of Michelangelo and that my vision as a craft person will never be akin to Hector Guimard. Honestly, this past Saturday I was feeling more like Ron Popeil – not that there’s anything wrong with that, at least his stuff sells.
So pass the wine cup Antonio, we’ll try again… but not right now.