My current rule is: when in doubt, paint a tree.*

So I did.

Black Alder, 2011. Acrylic [...]]]> My head has been filled with a lot of nonsense lately. A lot of confusion and shaky ideas. I’m not sure what it was all about, but I do have something of a remedy for it.

My current rule is: when in doubt, paint a tree.*

So I did.

Black Alder, 2011. Acrylic on canvas. Size: teeny

And you know? I’m feeling a lot better already.

_{*If you’re guessing that I have a lot of tree paintings around the house, you, my friend, are correct.}

COMMENTS: It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’d love to hear about anything you’re working on.

If you’re currently confused or have been recently, you are welcome to join my club (we may end up having a treehouse).

Or if you feel inspired to say hello to my latest tree, I’m sure it would appreciate that too.

I’d had these images floating around in my head. More than images, they were ideas, the essences of the images.

(Well, it makes perfect sense to my brain, anyway.)

I was excited to finally be able to let these idea-images out onto paper.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with monsters, here’s a brief introduction: they are the parts of you that get really scared or even outraged whenever you try to do something a bit more daring. That something could be working [...]]]> Here’s a little story about using logic to outwit the monsters*.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with monsters, here’s a brief introduction: they are the parts of you that get really scared or even outraged whenever you try to do something a bit more daring. That something could be working on a business idea, starting a new and healthy habit, becoming more visible online. Or it could be playing with a creative project.

_{*I got to know my monsters through the marvelous Havi! For more on monsters, read nearly everything she’s ever written, or at least this post.}

Yesterday I had this uncontrollable urge to paint.

And I had to use oil paints. Nothing else would do.

No sooner had the idea entered my head than a host of sweet little monsters showed up. Some of them were terrified. Some were horrified. All of them were definitely something-ified.

The first one to speak up noted that I had no empty canvases.

This was true, and I decided to dig up some gessoed canvas scraps I had lying around and tape one to a board. It was just going to be a sketch anyway, not a masterpiece.

The second one pointed out that nearly all my paints were elsewhere.

This was also true. And yet I managed to find three extra tubes: a white and two umbers.

A third monster complained about the lack of color.

You ought to go out and buy some more paints, he suggested. Why not go now?

You’re right, I replied, it will be a bit… sepia-ish. But I love monochromes. And maybe a very limited palette will help me learn something about value. It could be an interesting exercise. Besides, I just want to get started, so if you’ll excuse me…

The fourth monster to speak bewailed my lack of a palette, which was also elsewhere.

So I fashioned one out of an unused board, some paper, a sheet of thin, clear plastic and some masking tape. Voilà: a brand-new palette in five minutes.

Monster number five was not pleased about my setup.

You need a real studio! he said. You’re painting in your kitchen? This is going to end in disaster!

This was when I knew the monsters were getting desperate: they were pushing one of my biggest buttons, definitely a low blow. I really want a studio and they know it. But I kept moving forward, telling them: the important thing is to make stuff, right? As long as it’s getting made, it doesn’t matter where it happens.

I admitted that there would be a fair amount of fumes in the air. Luckily, I have a big window and a ceiling fan. No problem.

The sixth monster was looking out for my clothes. Of all things.

You have nothing to wear for painting! he said. It’s messy! You’ll get paint on yourself, and replacing your clothes will be expensive! You need to go out and buy a smock, right this very instant.

He was right, I do tend to get paint on my clothes. And hey, I just happened to have two bags of worn-out old clothes waiting to go to charity. How very convenient. Suddenly I had a new painting outfit.

But, but, but…

The monsters had run out of objections other than the usual ones (“You should be trying to make more money instead”) which weren’t going to work that day. They could just tell.

Disappointed, they sat down beside me as I started to paint, and they were kind enough to show me all the spots where I was making mistakes.

Aw, sweet little monsters. I am so very grateful for their help.

Anyway, in spite of all the monstertalk I had a great time. Want to see the very small, sepia-ish painting? Here it is.

Monsters would like to point out how the canvas buckled in the middle. Thanks, guys.

COMMENTS: Talking to monsters is not always as fun as I sometimes make it out to be. It can be pretty hard, actually.

So we need to be particularly kind to ourselves and to others when we’re dealing with the fuzzy little darlings. And if someone isn’t asking for help or advice, we’ll assume they just want to be heard instead.

I’m wondering: do you have monsters like these? What kinds of silly objections do they tend to raise when you’re doing something particularly daring? Outwitting monsters with logic is something of a hobby of mine, so I’d love it if you played along.

I’ve come here before, several times in fact. And I’ve always sat in the same area.

Yesterday, I realized that I was annoyed and uncomfortable and so [...]]]> I’m writing this post from my new, top-secret writing location. And today, within this top-secret writing location I’m sitting in an even more secret hiding place.

I’ve come here before, several times in fact. And I’ve always sat in the same area.

Yesterday, I realized that I was annoyed and uncomfortable and so I started to take some notes.

Surprise! There were some good reasons why I wasn’t getting as much done.

Too much noise. Too much smoke. Too many distractions.

How did I not notice this before? I had to change my location.

Wait. Haven’t I already learned this?

For a period in my 20s I taught English as a second language. Sometimes I taught in a classroom, other times I went directly to my students’ workplace.

Regardless of where I was teaching, who my students were and how many people were in the classroom, at the beginning of the class, I always noticed the same phenomenon play itself out.

Day after day, week after week, everyone sat in the same exact chair.

This is all sounding familiar.

When I was in school, most of the teachers would seat us alphabetically by last name. I was always at the front, and I hated it.

The cooler teachers would let us sit wherever we liked, and I’d usually sit in the back, just because it felt different. But even then, we’d all usually sit in the same seat every time so that we could be next to our friends.

And then there were some teachers who would randomly mix us up every now and then. New seating arrangements! The horrors! I remember the other students’ reactions as being a mixture of bewilderment and indignation.

Guys, I’m about to say something really original and wise.

Are you ready? Yeah?

Write this one down: we tend to resist change.

Okay, so this is not news to anyone. Yet, sometimes we can forget how often it is true, especially when it comes to seemingly unimportant changes.

We resist change even when the change doesn’t seem like a drastic one. Even when our current choices are totally not working for us.

Here in my top-secret location, I sat in the same noisy, smoky area for several days. I would resent the shouting of the students sitting next to me and sigh inwardly every time I heard the skritching sound of a cigarette lighter.

And yet, all I had to do was get up and move.

Now I’ve found the perfect spot. Fewer distractions, no smoke, not a single loud student. A better view, even. Only a few steps away from my previous spot. To think it only took me a couple weeks to figure this out (rolling eyes at self).

I wish I could go back in time to a few weeks ago, tap on my own shoulder and tell myself to just change location for goodness’ sake.

And again, and again.

I’ve been seeing this all over the place, even when there’s no benefit whatsoever to staying in one place. Case in point: Rally!

At Rally, we spent most of the day working on our projects in a large, shared space (oh, Playground! How I miss you). We were encouraged to change our “locations” as many times as we liked during the three days of Rally, in part because changing location can help move a project along. Okay, I thought, that makes sense.

And yet, I (and I think others too) found myself drawn to a certain area. It seemed like the right spot. It became familiar. And I got stuck there, physically and mentally.

I’d continue pushing on in my chosen spot, trying to persevere, almost as if I were thinking if I just stay here long enough…

Oh, hello, pattern.

Even then, all I had to do was get up and change my location.

Once I realized this, the ideas started to flow.

At the Playground, there are no teachers to tell us what to do, and it’s far from being loud and smoky. And yet, it was still easy to fall back into old patterns. 

I’m interested in whatever it is that makes us stay put, when it’s clear that moving would make everything better. Why do we push ourselves? Are we hoping for a reward of some kind for our efforts? A shiny gold medal in Refusing to Change?

This is not just about physical location. Of course.

It applies to all the ways we can make one tiny change but don’t. If you think about it, the ways we could create a tiny change and see huge results are practically infinite.

Now I’m wondering what other tweaks I could make today to see some big shifts.

Because strangely enough, some big shifts seem to come not with big change, but with tiny changes.

COMMENTS: I’d love to hear about the little tweaks you’ve made, or the ways you’re experimenting with creating shifts both big and small.

Where does your resistance show up? What sorts of things have you discovered?

(As always, around here we treat everyone with kindness and respect, because we are awesome, naturally. And part of showing that respect is not offering unsolicited advice or making judgments.)

Waving to you from my top-secret location! Hee hee, nobody will ever find me here!

That night, I took poor Cristina home and gave her a new front wheel, new brakes and a [...]]]> So I have this lovely orange bike named Cristina. I didn’t name her – she was already a Cristina when I found her lying abandoned, minus a front wheel, in an empty square one summer night.

That night, I took poor Cristina home and gave her a new front wheel, new brakes and a milk-crate basket.

She was my faithful friend for a few years. We went to work together every day. We got groceries together. She carried me to all my teaching appointments, to nights out, through many a traffic jam.

Then, at some point, I stopped riding my bicycle.

Why did this happen? Well, I started working from home, and no longer had a commute. I got out of the habit. Sitting in front of a computer for hours at a time meant that all I wanted to do was walk, even hour-long walks. Especially hour-long walks.

I discovered that walking calms me down, whereas cycling in Florence is generally not a calming activity by any stretch of the imagination.

So no riding of the bicycle. Cristina has been very patient through all this. I suspect she is actually enjoying the rest. She’s getting on, you know.

But somehow, I’ve developed some kind of fear of riding my bicycle. As if I have forgotten how to do it.

I know, rationally, that you don’t forget how to ride a bicycle.

After all, it’s just like riding a bike, right?

Right. Like that.

And yet when I think about taking Cristina out for a spin, I immediately return to the time when a speeding motorcycle crossed the bike path, hitting my front wheel, and just kept going.

Or the time I ended up crossing a huge boulevard behind a bus just as the light went red, and found myself in the middle of two lanes of furious, honking traffic that wouldn’t let me get to the other side.

Or or or.

Somehow, all the good memories become inaccessible.

Yes, I admit that I was a bit stressed more often than not, but there were also times when I was happy to be on my bike.

There were the times when I felt confident and free to go wherever I liked. The times when I would sail down a quiet street on a cool night. All the times Cristina quickly and safely saw me to my destination.

Am I really worried that I’ve forgotten how to ride a bike?

Not really. I think it would all come back to me pretty quickly.

Maybe this fear is not so much about forgetting how as it is about trust.

Guess what?

I’m not really talking about bicycles here.

You may have already figured that one out, my dears, because you are all smart cookies.

What’s really going on is that it’s been a good two months since my last post, and I’m sitting here beside a fuzzy green monster who is convinced that I have forgotten how to blog and should just stop trying.

(Aw, sweet little monster. So very green and fuzzy. And always looking out for me.)

So this is me, remembering that I know how to ride a bike, and dipping in one little toe at a time to test the waters. Because who doesn’t love a good mixed metaphor?

I may never ride a bicycle in Florence again. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. But I would want that to be a conscious choice that I made because I really dislike cycling through Florentine traffic, not because I don’t trust myself.

Just a little thought for today. And a picture of Cristina, because how could I not post one?

Huh. Sure beats carrying your groceries for you.

COMMENTS: This is a pretty vulnerable post here about fear and trust. Which are really huge subjects that can be painful to investigate.

Lots and lots of tricky things will most likely come up when we play around with either one of them. As usual, I invite you to be gentle with yourself and with everyone else here (and that includes me, you hear?).

So we won’t give any unsolicited advice or judge anyone’s experience with this stuff. Because we know it’s hard and we respect that. Also because we are awesome.

And while I’m at it, I want to take any guilty feelings about the metaphorical Cristinas we have parked outside our houses and fling all that guilt right out the window. Whee! There it goes.

Here’s a question to ponder, in the comments or not: do you have any fears that might just be about trust?

And do you have a fuzzy green monster who would like to convince you otherwise? Because mine wants you to know that he might be starting a club. Just FYI.

One of the words is possibility.

I’m [...]]]> Recently a kinda weird thing has been happening. I’ve noticed that there are a few words that follow me around like little puppy dogs. They’ve been tagging along for a few months now. They just keep on popping up in my thoughts, my conversations, even dreams sometimes.

One of the words is possibility.

I’m not much of a words person – I prefer images. So I took possibility and made an image out of it in my journal.

Things I’ve learned are possible, as a result of this little exercise:

- turning a puppy-dog word into an image

- working with something I usually stay away from (in this case, words)

- making a picture in 25 minutes

Things I believe are possible:

- learning how to scan so my images don’t have blurry spots

- learning how to use watercolor, if I work at it

- making another drawing today

- turning the other words into images too

COMMENTS: We’re at the start of a new week and a new month.

What’s possible?

(If you don’t want to answer that question, I’d love to know: do you have any puppy-dog words?)

So that’s why I’ve had this insane craving for cupcakes all week.

Oh, way more than can be included in one little post. But I do want to share few things [...]]]> Well, Artful Play has been around for one whole year: today is my blog’s birthday.

So that’s why I’ve had this insane craving for cupcakes all week.

What I’ve learned from this year of blogging

Oh, way more than can be included in one little post. But I do want to share few things with you.

1. Blogging is a lot of fun, and I should have started earlier, instead of spending two (or more?) years freaking out about it.

2. You also learn a lot by blogging. Obviously.

3. You’re not nearly as exposed to the world as you think. Recently, I had a chat with a fellow blogger and mentioned my initial blogging-related fears around visibility. She was surprised: she didn’t think my posts were that revealing at all. So when you feel like you’re baring all in one of your posts, chances are that’s just your perception.

4. There are awesome people out there, and if you keep at it long enough, they will come hang out at your blog. And it will be good.

5. You don’t need to post every day. Or every week. Even if you’ve promised to yourself that you would. It will be okay, and people will love your stuff all the same.

6. You can always play around with the privacy levels of your blog while you’re just getting used to being visible.

7. And anyway, once you get into posting you’ll probably discover that it’s a lot less scarier than you think.

So, my friends, if any of you are thinking of starting a blog, I wholeheartedly support that. I want to read your stuff! And now that I am officially a Blogging Expert I am happy to give you advices on starting out, if you want.

But enough of this serious stuff. Pass the champagne and cupcakes, I say.

COMMENTS: Leave whatever you’d like! If you want to give my blog a present, I can tell you that it loves to get updates on creative projects of all kinds. Failing that, more champagne and cupcakes are always welcome.

Last night, I was distracted. We had been watching a talk show, of the sort where various intellectuals, politicians [...]]]> The television was on as we were eating dinner last night, which is the normal state of things here at Artful Play HQ (unfortunately). I usually tune out, I admit, unless there’s something good on.

Last night, I was distracted. We had been watching a talk show, of the sort where various intellectuals, politicians and artists are invited for interviews.

On this particular occasion they were interviewing Stéphane Hessel, who has lived a fascinating life, by the way. And I’m sure the interview was just as fascinating. But the whole time I was thinking about how hard the interpreter was having to work, because I am a big nerd.

Can I have your attention please?

At the very end of the interview, I suddenly snapped out of my nerdy reverie.

The host made reference to Hessel’s book, Time for Outrage!, remarking that it ends with the phrase, “To Create is to Resist. To Resist is to Create.”

Now, having read about Hessel’s life, I know he wasn’t exactly thinking in Artful Play terms when he wrote that. The man is 93 years old and he took part in the French Resistance. Yes, that kind of resistance.

But at the time, thinking about this quote from his book, my mind took off in an entirely different direction.

Often when we talk about creativity, we use the term “resistance” to mean something that stops us from creating. Some unknown, hidden force that reminds us of laundry to be done, or television shows to be watched. Or, in some cases, a paralyzing fear.

I’d like to turn this idea around. Because I think that every time we do create something, we are actually the ones resisting.

Creating is really quite subversive, if you think about it.

In many cases, you’re doing something creative purely for the sake of enjoying it.

While you’re working on your project there’s a good chance you’ll have to take risks, make mistakes, question your assumptions, reinvent everything, make a huge mess and keep on going anyway.

At the end of the day, you might not have anything to “show for” your creative work: a lot of the creative process happens under the surface (maybe underground is a better word in this post?).

And there is absolutely no guarantee of any reward, whether that be money, your own satisfaction, or someone else’s approval.

That doesn’t sound like behavior our culture normally condones, does it?

COMMENTS: I don’t mean to suggest that making a collage is akin to starting a revolution.

But I do think that creating – and creating often – can help strengthen our resistance-muscles.

And I would love to hear what you think about this idea.

… Because at the moment I’ve got a a dooming leadline.*

On the rocks with a slice of orange and a shot of B12, thanks.

With all the talk of B12 Campari cocktails around here, I had to go out and get myself some actual Campari. For the sake of the blog.

So. Yesterday I was working with systems. And today, I encountered a perfect example of a system that needed some work.

The idea for today’s blog post came to me as I was sitting [...]]]> (By that I mean, I will use crayons to solve your problem. Nobody has a problem with crayons, right? Ahem.)

So. Yesterday I was working with systems. And today, I encountered a perfect example of a system that needed some work.

The idea for today’s blog post came to me as I was sitting in yet another waiting room at my local health authority (surprise!).

Inefficiency in a public office? Noooo

The particular office I visited this morning is for people who need to renew their health card, get a new primary physician, or make an appointment with a specialist.

Today, I belonged to the first group; nearly everyone else belonged to the third group (I could tell by the forms they were holding, and by their loud complaints about the wait).

I had been there before, most recently a couple weeks ago. At the time, I had taken my number and sat patiently. When my number was called, I went in to speak with one of the clerks. As she was looking into my records, I noticed a little pile of brochures sitting on her desk.

“You can now make appointments with specialists by calling a toll-free number, or by requesting them at your local pharmacy,” it said. And there followed a list of many, many pharmacies that were connected to the healthcare system. I took one of the brochures, glad to know that next time I could save myself an hour’s worth of hassle.

Today, as I was waiting my turn, I glanced about the room, which was filled with people grumbling about the wait. It’s true, on this fine Thursday morning there were a lot of people waiting. All with their forms for specialist appointments in hand. And those brochures were nowhere to be seen.

Artful Play to the rescue

Dear Florence District 4 Health Authority: I have the solution to your problem. Just give me a bunch of those brochures, some posterboard and some crayons, and I will cut your wait times in half.

Why, I wondered, hadn’t someone thought of this earlier? What’s the point of making people wait for upwards of an hour before telling them, “Hey, did you know you could have been having a leisurely cappuccino instead?”

They could have posters printed and put them in each of the health authorities. They could put some in the participating pharmacies too. With brochures available for all. How much could it possibly cost?

But I know there’s no use in expecting that the health authority will see the error of its ways. Instead, I thought about how this might apply to my own life and work.

It made me wonder: what incredibly easy solutions am I overlooking in my business, or in my daily communication?

Here’s another scenario, decidedly tastier

If you ever come to Florence, and can eat bread (grumble), I will recommend that you stop for a sandwich at i Fratellini.

This place is something of a legend. It has been selling excellent sandwiches and wines by the glass for over a hundred years. It is quite literally a hole in the wall, and if you visit i Fratellini you will see that I don’t abuse the term “literally.”

They’ve been around for a while, so they’ve had time to perfect their systems, which are exemplary.

When you round the corner on Via dei Cimatori you’ll immediately see a line. I Fratellini is famous and the line just attracts more people. Get in line; it will be worth the wait.

You’ll notice that there are signs on either side of the hole-in-the-wall listing the various sandwich combinations and their prices. They are numbered and written in Italian, English and Japanese, so that all you have to say is, “Number 23!” Sadly, the signs are a bit difficult to read when you’re at the end of the line.

But wait! As you’re standing in line, a helper will come up to you with a paper copy of the sandwich list. So you can decide on your sandwich while waiting. By the time you get to the counter, you can just shout out your number.

The two Fratellini guys have assigned themselves specific roles, like some sort of mini assembly line. They will make your sandwich, pour your wine and take your money in less than a minute. It’s awe-inspiring.

Content, you bring your sandwich to the side of the building, where they have hung two sets of tiny wooden shelves. Your glass of wine fits perfectly on these shelves. Each spot is numbered, so you never pick up someone else’s glass.

Sit your glass at spot VII

Apparently, i Fratellini will not be requiring my crayon-themed services.

COMMENTS: In both of these scenarios, it seems like the themes are visibility, clear communication and timing.

Do you think that there are parts of your work or life that could benefit from making things super clear and visible at just the right time?

Or, alternatively, could they benefit from crayons? Because I am happy to travel.