Winning the Time Lottery

Few things panic me more than thinking about how my time is being used.  I am sure that I have mentioned before that I am a husband, father, homeowner, full time teacher, and –oh yeah- I try to maintain this little project called an art career.  Each of these roles is a significant source of fulfillment, and I care deeply about the relationships involved with every one of them.  But, somehow, the label of artist carries with it a vague and persistent pressure that can raise my level of antsyness about being substandard faster than almost anything else that I care about.  You see, I have this intuitive, built-in meter, clamped securely to my guts, that measures whether I am spending “enough” time in the studio.  I imagine it to look like a game show pie graph with a pivoting arrow, and with different colored wedges, each labeled with descriptive phrases like, “real artist”, and “hobbyist”, and “give it up looser!” At the end of each week, it is my goal to keep this meter happily buzzing in a safe zone that will make me feel that the world is still full of possibility, and that my day-to-day busyness really can add up to something significant.   

But, apparently, thinking about how my time is being used is different than analyzing how my time is being used.  Recently, I was lamenting to my very supportive wife about my obligations, and I stated that if I just had about 30 hours of studio time available every week, then I would finally be able to move forward with my work the way I needed to.  She responded with a patient nod. So, to drive home my dilemma, I turned to a tool I rarely use: actual math.  First, I started calculating amounts to explain how my time disappears; teaching= about 45 hours per week, sleep= 56 hours per week, family time/making dinner/cleaning up on weekdays= about 20 hours, hanging out with the in-laws on Sunday= about 8 hours, getting ready for work on weekdays= about 5 hours, getting everyone ready for church and attending church every week= about 3 hours, and random home maintenance projects= about 3 hours per week.  Then, with self pity, I subtracted these amounts from the 168 hours that make up a week.  So, I felt a little sheepish to see that I was left with 28 hours per week (also known as about 30 hours per week).

I shared this story with a fellow artist a few days later, and he told me that it reminded him of buying a lottery ticket.  “You know, for a few minutes I can fantasize about what I would do with the money if I won.  But then, when I really think about it, I would probably just spend the money on the same things I always spend money on.  Those are the things I care about.”  I then had to admit to him that when I am given extra time- during the summer months, or during our recent snow days for example- that I really struggle to get even a little studio time in. Those are the days when it feels less urgent to wake up early and get out of bed (10 hours= sleep + “make up” sleep).  Free time also creates a vacuum that sucks in unexpected projects (take apart the dishwasher+ discovering I am not an appliance technician= 2 hours).  Without the perspective of a demanding schedule, I become overly ambitious, and maybe a tiny bit too obsessed, with rather meaningless tasks (defeat the boss man on old super Nintendo Street Fighter game= 2 hours).  Strangely, this reminds me of the lottery too.  It reminds me of every horrible story you have ever head about some poor chump who wins millions of dollars, only to squander it pointlessly on junk they never really needed. 

So, in a more positive equation, here is my current math problem; less whining+ more work+ a little bit of accounting+ giving myself some credit+ being grateful for what I have> being a loser.

Please view my work at kevinpkellyart.artspan.com

Polishing the...You Know

So, I have had quite a few comments and questions about the name of this blog.  My “polite” short answer is that the name incorporates the major themes of my art endeavors, traditional ideas about making art and beauty mixed with the mundane details of life (in this case, the earthiest of mundane details).  But, as is the case so many times, the answer is really less straightforward, more of a “pile” of related thoughts and experiences about the intersections of daily life and art.  I could say:

• Well, there was this time when I was taking an undergrad ceramics class.  I was sitting in the clay studio after hours, rubbing a thick-walled wheel thrown pot with slip, and trying in vain to burnish its surface to sheen with the back of a spoon.  A grad student walked in, watched me struggle for a few minutes, and sadly shook his head, then spoke, “My dad always said, ‘you just can’t polish a turd.’”  Then he turned and walked out.
• My studio is in the basement of our house, the “bowels” of our home, and I work around the heating ducts and plumbing.  Once a year, our sewer will back up, and yes, the main sewer clean-out is also there in the basement.  This means that I get to host an annual studio visit with a Roto-Rooter technician.  I get to explain what is going on in my studio, discuss the merits of making art, and, if I am lucky, have an impromptu critique.
• Any beginning painting student will tell you that it is pretty easy to make brown.  Mix a bunch of colors together, and you will get some variation.  Add the texture of paint to that observation, and before long the associations with bodily functions will come.  My work explores those colors that pollute our every day environments.  It is fitting that processing and digesting these colors yields the “specimens” that populate my paintings.
• Do you remember Homestar Runner?  If you missed out on this surreal bit of internet pop culture, look it up.  As an artist I have always felt some kinship with the Poopsmith.  He is a quiet character, a little mysterious, always in the background, nobody is quite sure what his work actually is, but they are sure that they do not want to stand too close to him.
• Just in case you think that it is juvenile to dwell on such a subject, I would argue that adults, not kids, are actually much more likely to initiate conversation about this taboo topic.  Sure, I grew up with four brothers, but at least we were polite enough to use creative euphemisms when needed (my favorite was, “I’m going to take the kids to the pool.”).  As parents, my wife and I have developed specialized vocabulary to discuss the contents of diapers.  “Honey, it was just a Milk Dud, nothing to get excited about,” verses “Wow! What a crack-packer!”, for instance.  I did think that this was just an “us” thing, but I have had the same types of conversations with professional peers, say, in the hallways at work.  “Yep, my kid was at home with a case of hot lava all day yesterday.”  Speaking of maturity, this sense of shared experience does carry into later years.  My 75 year old father-in-law, who is not normally known for his intimacy (I can only remember hugging him once in our 17 year relationship), feels perfectly comfortable discussing the state of his bowels with me.  Recently he volunteered, “They make a really good chocolate wafer that takes care of me when I’m feeling a little blocked.”
• I was listening to a radio call-in show not long ago, and a doctor was answering general health questions for listeners.  One caller wanted to know if it was possible to purify your diet to the point that your body would no longer produce solid waste.  The doctor seemed a little taken a back.  “You know, like if you just ate like pure vitamins and stuff,” the caller clarified.  The doctor tentatively ventured a few scientific explanations, but then conceded; we will never be able to fully eliminate the crap from our lives.
• On my birthday last month, my family was eating out to celebrate, and my mom called my cell phone to wish me a happy birthday.  I thanked her, and she continued, “Did you know that it is also A.A. Milne’s birthday?”  I said I didn’t, and she continued, “So they call today Pooh day!”  She continued again, “It fits you perfectly, since you were born all covered with meconium!”

And, on that last note, I could just say that making art is a means of “polishing” myself, and that, of course, makes me the…you know.

See my artwork at kevinpkellyart.artspan.com

Time to Paint

The other night at dinner I was sneezing and sniffling, and I made an offhand comment like,"I hope I am not getting sick.  That's the last thing that I need right now."  This week was the week before finals, the most grueling week of the semester.  This year it has been mixed with an art exhibit for teachers, an art competition for my students, along with the normal end-of-term public school drama and a flurry of holiday activities. My sister-in-law was with us, and she suggested a medicine that would nip a cold in the bud if taken as soon as symptoms started to show.  My wife looked at me unsympathetically and said flatly, "he doesn't need medicine.  He just needs to paint."  As the mother of four kids, my wife is great at feeling out fevers, assessing digestive issues, and layering medicines to cover any number of maladies.  But my wife has also become an expert at my psychosis.  She knows that when I do not spend a certain number of hours per week in my studio, that I "get a certain way." Here are the symptoms:

• Clumsiness.  This is always an issue, but I manage to loose any portion of grace that I posses.  Plus, I also spontaneously invent swearing phrases that are embarrassing and do not make sense, like "Shit cakes!", or "Frick-riken!" This reminds me of my dad ("Dag-nabbit!")
• Irritability.  Like, to the point that I am scolding inanimate objects for not cooperating with some every day task, or saying things like, "why does gravity always have to work against me!"
• Distractabilty.  The details of things seem to evade me.  Also, I start to care less about putting small pieces together.  This is a surefire way to create hell in a high school classroom.  "Sure, you can go work out in the hallway with your friends.  Whatever."
• Self-centeredness.  Like talking back to the radio when Robert Siegel is interviewing a politician with an annoying point of view.  Like becoming very possessive of every minute of alone time.    Like paying  attention to every sneeze or sniffle.

This is the paradox of the art studio- if I spend a couple of hours per day steeped in my own mental space, caring only about those things that only I care about, I become so much more empathetic toward others.  If I zone out, wearing my ipod, and listen to loud, vulgar music like the Pixies, I am transformed into a calm and more lucid speaker.  If I hyper-concentrate on small, isolated tasks such as masking off a complicated shape or making just the right unpracticed-looking brushstroke, I can dance through a complicated day.  And even if  I am facing a very busy schedule, spending a couple of hours in my studio always means that I will get more school work, house work and relationship building done than if I gave those hours to more tasks. 

Isn't that a shit cake?

Please visit my work at kevinpkellyart.artspan.com