The Question
I was asked yesterday if I was an artist. I instinctively said, no. Then thought, wait, I’m a writer. Maybe that counts. But I’m not sure. I think when people talk about artists, they mean people who paint, sculpt, and make things you hang on walls or stand up in gardens. You can take in a painting or piece of stained glass at a glance. I give people a copy of my book and all they see is work, as in they have to sit down and read it.
So, in that sense. No. I’m not an artist. I’m a writer. Is there art there? Sure. I can make you laugh, cry, moan, and give you pause. On my good days. Not sure what happens on my bad days. I did have a fellow tell me once I was the worst writer in the world, after he’d read several of my posts about skunks in the pasture. I shrugged it off because he’s a good friend who has done right by me for a long time. Besides, I think we need to know about skunks in the pasture to help us understand that everything in the world isn’t cataclysmic. There’s a lot of ordinary going on and to me, it’s beautiful.
Take my Morning Glory. It is firmly attached to the new trellis, and I know by end of summer it will be in glorious display. Same with my peaches. The buds have become little nut like mini-peaches and by end of summer I will have friends over and we will can them. And the list goes one. The Barbados cherry is returned from the frozen. The crape myrtles are full. The turks caps are ready to bloom. The coral sage and the salvia are blooming. Artistry. Beauty. Something to look at, and I’m telling you about it. Not so much that you’ll want to come see mine, but to serve as a small reminder there may be something small and elegant just outside the door that will brighten your day if you simply stop to look.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale