Art and About – Archive

The art each of us produces is supposed to be autobiographical, but I never thought it would happen to me. Although I live an artful life, much of what I make with my hands I classify more as pragmatic, utilitarian crafts. The greatest message I believe most of my artsy-craftsy projects project is that I am a pragmatic, utilitarian kind of gal. My latest project started out as another practical endeavor but secretly, I was revealing a truth about myself I never knew.

Our hall bathroom has a blank wall directly facing the door. There is a lot of cool family memorabilia in the bathroom, which is our play on the term “family bath,” but you have to walk into the room to see it. We needed something on that blank wall to lure people in, and capture the theme of the room to passersby.

Since it is a bathroom, we decided an attractive medicine cabinet would serve storage needs and be nice to look at. But the piece had to have some history about it. I was fortunate to find a $5 solid oak cabinet at the Oakland Museum’s White Elephant Sale. It needed some love, but it matched the other woodwork in the room perfectly. Now I needed to turn the practical into an art statement.

A wide, wooden frame surrounding both the mirrored door and the shelving portion of the cabinet were just asking to be carved. The place in my brain that sends up ideas while I take a shower exclaimed, “How about a quote about the importance of family.” Google helped me find the perfect quote by Gail Lumet Buckley: “Family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present and future.” I decided to paint this prose on the mirror and carve all the surnames I could collect from both sides of the family that have contributed to my kids’ bloodline.

I started emailing my relatives and my husband’s relatives and the names started pouring in. The list grew, and I started to carve what I call The Parade of Maiden Names into the cabinet. My name, Engelbrecht, and my husband’s name, Smyth, are centered on the mirror doorframe and the generations of names follow up and down the cabinet.

This process made me examine my name. Although it is a difficult name for Americans to spell and pronounce, there was never really a time in my life that I intended to change it when I got married. My parents would joke that I used to say I hoped I married a man named “Smith” or “Jones,” but I didn’t really wish for that. Besides, I did end up marrying a man named “Smyth,” but no one can spell or pronounce his name either.

I grew up in a very traditional household. I do not consider myself a feminist. It just never made sense to me to change my name. I was born Christina Engelbrecht and that’s just who I am. My paternal relatives are a very proud and vocal people and I knew from day one what it meant to be an Engelbrecht woman. When I was in my early 20s, my maternal grandmother wrote a history of my mom’s family. It wasn’t until then that I realized, “Wow, these are pretty cool people and I barely know anything about them.”

While collecting names for the cabinet, I talked to several people on both sides of the family who regrettably had lost track of the family that belonged to their mother or grandmother. Some relatives couldn’t even remember their grandmothers’ maiden names. An extensive family tree on my husband’s side goes back to the 1600s with one surname, and most of the carriers of that name have their wife’s maiden name identified on the tree. But it took a lot more work for me to trace the tree that went with each of those maiden names, even though their ancestral contribution to the family is just as important as the men’s.

A light came on with the cabinet carving that I am not an Engelbrecht woman. I am a Ritter-Engelbrecht woman. Or more accurately, a Roebker-Maetting-Kuhlman-Wagener-Brunow-Bruening-Steege-Sept-Keller-Kudzinskly-Ritter-Engelbrecht woman, and I am not going to forget that.

Bob Etheredge of Orinda recently reminded me that April is National Poetry Month. I admit, I do not have that marked on my calendar. To hear that it is National Poetry Month immediately brings visions of young suitors courting maidens under the apple blossoms or Bohemians in small, smoky spaces listening to one another bare their souls in verse. I appreciate a good poem when it comes my way, but I rarely seek one out.

Poetry is a fundamental part of life for Bob and his father, Sam. I met the Etheredge boys when Sam edited a compilation of poetry that really struck my fancy. His book, “Poetry for a Lifetime,” is full of famous and beloved poets and their poetry. A lot of the poetry in Sam’s book I knew, and a lot of it I didn’t. Sam prefers a good rhyme to more contemporary experimental poetry, and my old soul agrees with him on that one. Sam also enjoys giving a little history or back story to poems to put them into context, which makes “Poetry for a Lifetime” an interesting and enlightening read, especially if you like history. When I received a copy of “Poetry for a Lifetime,” I read a little bit in bed each night before sleeping, which is something I had never done before. Sam had told me that I would find this practice would produce fulfilling literary moments, and he was right.

Now Bob is expanding my horizons through two new books which pair poetry with some practical tips, stories, star maps, mythology and first aid instructions. One is called “The Camper’s Companion” and the other is “The Military Companion.” They are designed to be books on the go, created to fit in your pocket or your knapsack and be pulled out for a campfire story or a quick moment of sanity during a tour of duty. The books are similar, but “The Military Companion” has a more militaristic flavor with the inclusion of inspiring speeches, war stories, world flags, military information, maps and poker rules.

Both books are fun to read, as well as educational and edifying. I am not a camper, nor have I been in the military. I honestly don’t see tents or fatigues in the same mental illustration as poetry. But I know Sam found great comfort from writing poetry during his service in World War II, and I’ve heard the same tale from military folks who served in wartime and peacetime. I know some of the best poetry gets written when people are experiencing the extremes of emotion. I know some of the best poetry gets read when people are looking for words that voice a strong emotion. These books made me realize that I need to elevate poetry to the pantheon of artistic fundamentals at the human core. I know for many of you, that was already obvious.

MiraVista Press, Bob’s company that publishes these books, has been sending copies of “Poetry for a Lifetime” to troops in Iraq for several months and gotten favorable responses. Now, Bob is giving all of us the chance to support the poetic nature of our soldiers by offering “The Military Companion” and “Poetry for a Lifetime” at half price if they are designated to be sent to Iraq. MiraVista will use names from anysoldier.com, send the book to a soldier or Marine and pay for the shipping. MiraVista’s Web site, www.miravista.com, has all the details.

For two years I’ve read the signs and listened to the rhetoric “Support Our Troops.” I didn’t know how I could substantially do that, other than clapping in church on Sunday morning when the clergy announces that congregation member so-and-so has returned home safely. But giving a soldier the gift of poetry and prose? That’s the kind of support I can give.

If I had to rank the arts in the order in which they emotionally stimulate me, I would have to put painting near the bottom. It would be miles ahead of, say, rap music, but well below theater, music and movies. I am in awe of people who can speak through paint, but paintings themselves often don’t speak to me.

We have a lot of artwork hanging up in our house. Less than a half of one percent involves brushstrokes of any kind, and that is because my husband has some Asian brushwork in his office.

I brought no paintings into our marriage and my husband brought one. It is entitled “Khisanth’s Lair,” portraying a rather fierce looking dragon guarding his treasure while some armored gents invade his cave. It is a scene from a book my husband enjoyed, although now he can’t remember the title. He bought the painting while in college and paid a small fortune, in college-student terms. The Dragon, as we call it, hid in a box for several years awaiting a wall of honor in our first home.

I didn’t like The Dragon when I first saw it. Not only did I find the subject a bit frightening, but I am not ordinarily a fan of the fantasy genre and the painting underscored the nerdy side of my husband. But when we bought our first house, my husband announced his intention to hang the dragon. I had to acquiesce, although I requested it be hung in his office.

I couldn’t control how my husband felt about the painting, but I could control the environment in which it was hung. The walls of Khisanth’s cave are deep blue and artist Tom Denmark painted them as if candlelight is casting light and dark blue ellipses around the lair. I imitated those elliptical shade variances using a faux finish on the walls of the office so that it was as if the whole room was Khisanth’s lair. This made the setting acceptable to me, even if the painting wasn’t.

The Dragon hung to the side of the office computer, and as I used to wait for something to download, or for writer’s block to clear up, I would stare at it. I began to admire the painter’s technique, making the coins and gems of Khisanth’s treasure glisten in the light through manipulating color and shape on a flat canvas. At moments, I was convinced that if I could touch that treasure through the framed glass, the coins and gems would feel authentic. I still wasn’t a fan of the painting, but I appreciate the talent behind it.

When we moved to house number two, the family office was downstairs while the main living floor was upstairs. We decided to hang The Dragon over my desk in the living room. But we moved from that house in only 10 months, and The Dragon was packed away in its box.

Its intended destination in house number three was back in the office, but two years passed and something kept us from hanging it. It was always way down on the weekend to-do list.

Over the last several months, we have been converting a spare bedroom to a library. One wall is perfect for The Dragon so we took it out of hiding last month and hung it. We stepped back to admire it. My husband had a satisfied smile, my son squealed with delight, my daughter said “Whoa!” and I cried. It felt like a reunion with an old friend whom I hadn’t even realized I missed. Now our treasured Dragon is on the job guarding our treasured family books.

The big awards season for movies and music was accompanied by the usual press criticisms of award winners for thanking their agents, lawyers, accountants and managers on national television. I am continually baffled by this criticism.  The winning actor, musician or filmmaker is merely thanking all the people who helped him or her live a successful, artistic life. Those gifted in the arts often are not talented in knowing how to share their gifts with the public without an organized support team behind them. The creative support teams for artists are also visited by muses.

Pediatrician Samuel Lewis of Lafayette is never at a loss for creative ideas to help promote young people in the performing arts. The long time fan and supporter of Belasco Theatre Company in Walnut Creek tirelessly promotes Belasco’s shows, its performers and its outreach program. But he is quick to say that he doesn’t sing or dance himself. Lewis’ gift is knowing the vital importance of getting kids on stage to perform, whether they are from a fortunate home or come from a family who, for myriad reasons, may not be able to give their child a shot at singing and dancing on the stage. Lewis also knows how important it is to give theater tickets to kids who don’t usually get an opportunity to see live theater because he knows seeing live theater can be a transforming experience. And Lewis knows that children who are given a chance to succeed on the stage will often gain the self-esteem, pride and self-confidence required to succeed in school and take that first step to becoming successful in life.

As Lewis says, “There’s some serious big-time talent out there who don’t have a way to share their talents.” It is within the scope of this observation that Lewis’ creative mind shines. Lewis bought some professional DJ equipment and formed the Smooth Motion Disc Jockey Group featuring three outstanding Belasco Theatre Company performing artists, Jonathan Smothers, Dave Abrams and Amber Clay. Smothers and Abrams come from tough backgrounds but have learned to soar via their musical talents. Clay was the top performing arts student at Skyline High School in Oakland last year.

Smooth Motion has been getting into motion performing at private and corporate parties. Using music from Shania Twain to show tunes, they play songs, sing and dance, do some karaoke and basically keep a party in high-gear fun. The money they earn from these gigs is going to their college funds.

This part of Lewis’ idea is great, but a Lewis idea is always multifaceted. Now that Smooth Motion is earning some money, they are starting to host dance parties for local seventh through tenth grade, to give young people who aren’t old enough to drive a safe and fabulous night of entertainment. But it doesn’t stop there. These dance parties are also fund-raisers for non-profit organizations. The first dance benefited the Step Up for Kids Foundation. A couple of bucks from each ticket went to the foundation. This spring there will be three dances to raise money for the new Lafayette Library.

Lewis’ idea is inspired and inspirational at so many levels. He has given Smothers, Abrams and Clay the chance to share their talents and earn money for college doing what they love. Smooth Motion is using their talents to give back to the community through fundraisers. Local kids have a safe place to dance and party away from school and home so they can be free to express themselves. Kids who attend the dance can be empowered by watching the success of their peers in Smooth Motion. And the kids attending the dance get the message that they are important enough to deserve live performers who go beyond simply playing CDs to singing and dancing at a party in celebration of youth and the arts. A volunteer manager who provides this opportunity for our kids deserves a lot of thanks from us all.

Hypocrisy dwells deep within me and plagues my soul.

On the one hand, I preach the importance of creating, participating in and celebrating the arts in our everyday lives. I despise elitism in the arts. I cringe when I run into someone who feels Artist A is more worthy of time, attention and financial reward than Artist B simply because a handful of snobs gave Artist A some wall space in a chic metropolitan gallery. I wince when opera is held up as a higher musical pursuit than doing Broadway shows. I particularly dislike when the world of dance is broken down into echelons ranging from classical ballet to street dancing. And I abhor when the art forms of Western civilization get more credence than the splendors of other cultures.

On the other hand, I am an elitist myself, particularly when in comes to the dreadful direction in which American popular culture is heading. It feels like the bar is set very low right now for American music, movies, theater and television. For instance, the “American Idol” phenomenon alone could be a sign of the Apocalypse, at least from an arts perspective. From what I can tell from one viewing during the first season, millions of Americans idolize young, hip-looking people who can adequately carry a tune loudly. “American Idol” has spurred myriad ruminations about how I must be more highly evolved than the lowest common denominator faithfully sitting in front of tube each week.

I’ve been reading a portion of “Common Culture: Symbolic work at play in the everyday cultures of the young” by Paul Willis, a professor of Social and Cultural Ethnography at Keele University in Staffordshire, England. His words mirror both my Jekyll and Hyde halves.

My Hyde self is ashamed when Willis describes “The institutions and practices, genres and terms of high art are currently categories of exclusion more than inclusion…If some things count as ‘art,’ the rest must be ‘non-art.’ Because ‘art’ is in the ‘art gallery,’ it can’t therefore be anywhere else. It is that which is special and heightened, not ordinary and everyday. The arts establishment, by and large, has done little to dispel these assumptions. It prefers instead to utilize or even promote fears of cultural decline and debasement in order to strengthen its own subsidy, institutional protection and privilege. In general the arts establishment connives to keep alive the myth of the special, creative individual artist holding out against passive mass consumerism, so helping to maintain a self-interested view of elite creativity.”

Ouch! Professor Willis just shoved me in with all the snooty snoots I purport to despise. But Jekyll gets out the cheerleading pom-poms when Willis goes on to discuss his theory of symbolic creativity. He defines symbolic creativity as the multitude of ways in which young people in particular “use, humanize, decorate and invest with meanings their common and immediate life spaces and social practices.” Willis says symbolic creativity is expressed through personal style, selection of clothing, TV shows, music, print media, room décor, dancing, drama or music-making. Willis says these pursuits are not trivial or inconsequential because “symbolic creativity is not only a part of everyday human activity, but also a necessary part.”

Since I whole-heartedly agree that art and creativity are a vital part of everyday human existence, I am re-examining my elitist tendencies in terms of Willis’ assertions. Everyone’s artistic inclinations are completely individual, which is what makes the world an interesting place. Right now, much of American pop culture may not be speaking to me, but it did 10 years ago, and it may again in another 10 years. I don’t have to be elitist about it, but rather speak the mantra “Not everyone is like Christina.” It would be very boring if America were a country full of Christinas.

I am a fan of the Home and Garden section of the newspaper, and a card-carrying member of the home improvement/do-it-yourself club. I find that a design project, or even the smallest repair, provides a tremendously satisfying creative outlet for me.

Paint color is a topic often covered in the newspaper, on television and in magazines. Usually, professional designers and artists encourage the reader or viewer to be bold with their paint color choices, urging them to stray from the mind-numbing pull of builder’s white, beige or, for the ultra-daring, grey-blue.

I happen to adore color, so I agree with those battling to rid this culture of vanilla decorating. However, an article about paint color in a recent Contra Costa Times Home and Garden section got my ire up. A sidebar about Style Notes read, “For those who are nervous about bold colors, start with a child’s room or a study. Those areas are more forgiving than public rooms.”

What I don’t like about this statement is the re-enforcement of the faulty notion that bold color is for kids, or that we can hide behind kids as an excuse to express the colors within ourselves. Rather than stating, “those areas are more forgiving,” the second sentence of the Style Notes should have read, “Children are more accepting.”

Elementary school classrooms are often bright displays of primary colors, inviting a child to enter and learn. But once we hit high school, the oppression of beige, white and grey-blue becomes the environmental color palette.

An article in Child magazine showed pictures of the wonderfully colorful and creative ways in which children’s hospitals are decorated throughout the United States. Abstract and vivid mobiles are hung from a glass ceiling in Philadelphia. Whimsically dressed cow statuary greets the children in Houston. A purple, red and yellow locomotive sits in the emergency room in St. Louis. I would love to see how medical statistic would be affected if adult hospitals were as cheerfully and inspirationally decorated.

I envy the colorful world in which children get to grow up. What I don’t understand is the loss of color in our surroundings once we leave childhood and the perception that beige, white and grey-blue are synonymous with maturity. It seems more like lethargy to me.

There are businesses generally perceived as fun places to work, and that reputation is often reflected in spiffy wall colors. Fun restaurants follow the same recipe, and I don’t mean Chuck E. Cheese, but rather Chow and those of its ilk. A lot of hot retailers also know that happy colors mean happy customers. For some reason, “serious” businesses and cube farms stick to the psychologically uninspiring beige, white and grey-blue. Can’t employees or customers be productive and happy at the same time with a little lift from a red wall? I wouldn’t be surprised.

I know for some folks, beige, white and grey-blue actually cause your heart to flutter. I’m not talking to you for you are the lucky ones for whom walking into a bank must be sheer excitement itself. But for anyone else who dreams of living in a more colorful world but for some culturally bizarre reason thinks this is the province of children, please know that you can be free of this misperception. Artistically expressing yourself through color, and being acted upon by the properties of color, is a true delight of the human experience.

Pablo Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” Society rewards us for conforming in so many ways that in this one inconsequential area, I encourage you to fight the power with all the spunk, vigor and wild abandonment of a two-year-old.

I have two avocational passions – anything to do with art and reuse/recycling. Although once in a while the two become intertwined, I admit that don’t go dumpster diving specifically to create an art piece. And I generally get more satisfaction giving or donating an item to be reused or recycled by someone who has a vision rather than forcing an unwanted item to stay in my home to be reused or recycled by me. I participate in the circle of life by bringing other people’s unwanted stuff into my home.

Since the twain rarely meet, I don’t go looking for intersections of art and recycling. But a reuse/recycle lightening bolt recently struck our home and I’m now seriously energized about taking reuse and recycling to the artistic level.

In our home was a seriously dated 1950s bathroom with a rotting subfloor. My husband and I considered many options on how to deal with the space to make the necessary repairs, please our aesthetic sensibilities, and not completely sell our souls to consumer culture by throwing out all of the old just so we could have something new. But Lucifer came a-knockin’ and we did decided to gut the space and start over. Our guilt and anguish quickly gave way to excitement and anticipation, even though I’m sure in some celestial courtroom someday I’ll have to answer to my great-great grandchildren about why I chose to destroy the Earth.

To us, this wasn’t just a bathroom remodel. We were designing Art. And we wanted it to be Art that stood the test of time, in style, taste, materials and individuality. The one thing I admired about our pink 1950s bathroom is that is made a statement in 1958 and it made a statement in 2004. We just disagreed with what it was stating.

As we started to search for materials, I ran across a tile company in San Jose that made tiles from recycled materials. The Fireclay Tile Debris Series is a handmade terra cotta tile containing 50% post-consumer and post-industrial recycled materials designed specifically to reduce landfill. Included in the body of the tile is granite dust from sandblasted electronic parts, recycled brown and green glass bottles and windowpanes.

This is very cool on an intellectual level, but true art has to speak to the heart, and the Debris Series is fluent. The result of the recycled products mixing with the traditional terra cotta recipe is that the finished tile has the richest red-brown hue, and a slightly rough and rustic texture for those of us who prefer our design shabby-chic. When glazed, the Debris Series tiles have a luscious depth of color. Instead of being completely opaque, you can just barely see the recycled tile product underneath the glaze. The tile would not be what it is without the uniquely recycled foundation.

I admit, when I thought of recycled art before now, I thought of sculptures made from junkyard finds, or old plates and tiles broken to become mosaic elements. The original purpose of the recycled element is evident and often obvious, even in its newly artistic rebirth. What gives me those artistic goosebumps with the Fireclay Tile is that their artisans have transcended an intellectual exercise on recycling and reached me emotionally.

The new bathroom is only a few weeks old and I actually think about this stuff every time I go in there. We didn’t select the tile expecting it to inspire internal dialogues on art and ecology during a routine bathroom visit. Still, I’ve always advocated that you should have art in every part of your life.

There is little that satisfies me as much as being taken to heights of extreme emotion via a theatrical, musical, dance or visual art experience. But I think my favorite relationship with the arts happens when I see or hear something that inspires me to go home and create art myself. The Cornerstone Festival of Gardens in Sonoma provided such inspiration.

The Cornerstone Festival of Gardens (www.cornerstonegardens.com) opened last July as an art exhibit by landscape designers who, using innovative and unusual materials, demonstrate how a garden can become a living and changing art piece surrounding your home. In 20 exhibits, traditional and unusual garden plants subsist with salvaged materials, creative reinventions of common household items and wacky, imaginative applications of outdoor structures. There is a maze constructed of recycled screen doors. A dying tree is completely covered in blue Christmas balls. White birch planted among crushed-seashell ground cover make an obstacle course for an informal game of bocce ball. Broken terracotta pots line a suggestive path invoking the journey of immigrant farm workers across the Mexican border to California. And a field of giant pinwheels spins wildly on the windy Sonoma flatlands.

Chris Hougie, the founder of Cornerstone, says of the idea behind the festival, “Designers are encouraged to invent, inform and create beautiful and compelling gardens that engage and inspire the viewer intellectually, emotionally and aesthetically.” The approach sure worked for me.

You see, I’m a lazy gardener, but I love a beautiful garden. I particularly love roses. I aspire to have a rose garden that reminds visitors of Orchard Nursery’s glorious rose section, where myriad varieties form endless rows of splendor all season until the last plant is sold. All my roses have names and stories about how they became a part of the family. Feeding my roses and pruning them is relaxing and rewarding. Sitting in my home and gazing at the sea of color from April through December is one of life’s simple pleasures.

And then in January, both the roses and I go into dormancy and for three months I hibernate in the house. This is where the art comes in, at least in my theory. Although I consider the severely pruned back stems of the rose to be sculptural, it occurred to me when I went on an art and garden fundraising tour several years ago that my rose garden would be greatly enhanced in the wintertime by the inclusion of outdoor art. On that tour, I saw spectacular gardens surrounding even more spectacular homes. The sculptures on display in the gardens were beautiful, but pricey. I thought to myself, “When I make my millions, I will buy high-ticket art and enhance my garden with magnificent sculpture.”

This turned out to be a frustrating statement. Since patience is not one of my virtues and I haven’t won the lottery yet, I’ve been trying to brainstorm alternate avenues for acquiring art. I thought about taking a welding class to create my own figures. I thought about building statues out of salvaged materials. I even asked a local church music director if I could have the pipes from the church’s old organ to make an art statement. None of these ideas have come to fruition.

A light bulb went off for me while strolling through Cornerstone. Our garden can be creatively enhanced with something as simple as red spray-painted bamboo uniquely arranged. Or monochromatic rocks piled in an unusual way. Textures from common building materials can be abstract and alluring when displayed in an unusual orientation.

For me, creating art is more enjoyable the tighter my budget and the freer my imagination. Winter is here, and this year I look forward to searching for inspiration in my garden canvas.

The New Year is around the corner and I have many resolutions, including one that I have renewed every January 1 for the last 14 years — to live a more artful life. It’s the sentiment that informs this column, and every now and again I run into a great quote from someone far more artsy than I am underscoring the same ideal. I envy their succinctness because it takes me 600 words every two weeks to say in Art and About what they say in one sentence. But, as Charles Bukowski wrote in “Notes of a Dirty Old Man,” “An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way.”

My New Year’s wish for all of you is that you will embrace and nurture the artist within yourself, if you haven’t already. But you don’t have to listen to me. Here’s what the heavy hitters have to say.

“Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life.” – Pablo Picasso

“It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance . . . and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.” – Henry James

“Do not imagine that Art is something which is designed to give gentle uplift and self-confidence. Art is not a brassiere. At least, not in the English sense. But do not forget that brassiere is the French word for life-jacket.” – Julian Barnes

“Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is great matter. Art is an organ of human life, transmitting man’s reasonable perception into feeling. In our age the common religious perception of men is the consciousness of the brotherhood of man-we know that the well-being of man lies in the union with his fellow men. True science should indicate the various methods of applying this consciousness to life. Art should transform this perception into feeling. The task of art is enormous. Through the influence of real art, aided by science, guided by religion, that peaceful co-operation of man is now obtained by external means-by law courts, police, charitable institutions, factory inspection, etc.-should be obtained by man’s free and joyous activity. Art should cause violence to be set aside. And it is only art that can accomplish this.” – Leo N. Tolstoy
(O.K., so Tolstoy also needed 600 words.)

“Art is the highest task and proper metaphysical activity of this life.” – Nietzsche

“It is through art, and through art only, that we can realize our perfection; through art and art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.” – Oscar Wilde

“Life is not a support system for art. It is the other way around.” – Stephen King

“The artist must train not only his eye but also his soul.” – Wassily Kaninsky

“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” – Stella Adler

“Art is a way of saying what it means to be alive, and the most salient feature of existence is the unthinkable odds against it. For every way that there is of being here, there are an infinity of ways of not being here. Historical accident snuffs out whole universes with every clock tick. Statistics declare us ridiculous. Thermodynamics prohibits us. Life, by any reasonable measure, is impossible, and my life—this, here, now—infinitely more so. Art is a way of saying, in the face of all that impossibility, just how worth celebrating it is to be able to say anything at all.” – Richard Powers

“Creativity takes courage.” – Henri Matisse

When my husband and I moved in together 10 years ago, our parents presented us with collections of Christmas ornaments from our youth so we could put them on our first commingled Christmas tree. At first, we politely said thank-you, unsure that the crude and imperfect ornaments would have a place on our “grown-up tree.” Together, we had bought more than enough ornaments that reflected our mutual taste, and they were definitely more polished then the lot of homemade and well-worn ornaments from our childhoods.

That first year we put the pathetic ornaments on the tree more out of obligation than sentiment. Most of them were placed on the back. During the next few years, they were the topic of derision, each of us teasing the other that his or her collection was the most pathetic assemblage of “Christmas Past” ever amassed. Some of my husband’s ornaments still make me laugh aloud when I unpack them. But I laugh harder at some of my own ornaments when I remember what my husband has said about them.

After we bought our first house, and had a little more room for decoration, we decided to segregate our ornaments, busing the ornaments from our youth off to a separate room and a less-than-equal tree. We bought a small artificial tree, put in on a corner coffee table, and designated it “The Tree of Our Youths,” although colloquially it was referred to as “The Pathetic Tree.” However, not once did we consider leaving those ornaments in storage, banished from Christmas splendor forever.

Those ornaments continue to have a strange hold over us. They are packed on the last layer of the last ornament box I open every year. Unlike our chichi ornaments, which each get an individual cardboard compartment in our ornaments boxes, the pathetic collection is squished together in whatever units are left vacant when all the other ornaments have been carefully wrapped and put away. Every year, I think about the bevy of ornaments we have acquired from friends and family, and I think it is time to use that artificial tree to highlight another subset of our collection. But instead, we choose to force the larger, dominant tree to become overstuffed with “quality” ornaments, while The Pathetic Tree is allowed to give each ornament the proper amount of airspace for optimum display.

This Christmas, a home remodeling project is encroaching on our living room, the center of all our Christmas decorating activity, and we decided to give many decorations a year off rather than watch them be smothered by construction dust. The artificial tree is acting as our primary arboreal accessory this year and it is adorned with some of the family’s favorite ornaments. None of the pathetic collection made the cut. And as you probably have guessed, I miss that motley crew.
Amateur psychology might suggest that the inclusion of those ornaments in our yearly celebration is a physical reminder of the Christmases of our youth, full of wonder, warmth and mystery. And that may be partially true. But I think what I miss most is that almost all those ornaments were either made by our own hands, made by someone for us, or they were personally selected to represent us in some way — my husband, the soccer player or me, the angel.

And I admit, not every ornament relegated to The Pathetic Tree is old. Sometimes, an ornament crafted by a friend or family member gets hung on that tree—ornaments that have more emotional and sentimental value than the average gift. Perhaps The Pathos Tree would be a better moniker. Next December when those ornaments see the light of day, they will be treated with the proper respect afforded the Elders.