Invisible Ursines

For tomorrow’s class, we’re supposed to come in with a list of “20 things you can make another person feel.” We’re supposed to write them down and bring them in and everything:

1. to emulate me
2. to admire my fashion sense
3. to envy my intelligence
4. to desire me
5. to love me
6. to want to share your sandwich
7. to fear me
8. to hate me
9. to be angry at me
10. to feel inferior to me
11. to like me innocently
12. to want to intimidate me
13. to threaten me
14. to kiss me
15. to feel embarrassed by me
16. to want to cry
17. to feel guilty
18. to need me
19. to find me entirely unattractive
20. to want to be far far away from me
21. to pity me

I’m not exactly sure what we’re going to do with these lists, although I have an idea or two.

I also thought it was kind of interesting how many things on my own list could be traced to specific thoughts and events in my last week. I just started reflecting on things going on in my personal life, and emotions I’d seen in our sketches in class last week, and things I’d seen on TV or read in my latest novel, and the list got itself populated.

I wonder if I’m enough an actor to do anything with it. We’ll see.

Last night was the first session of my new comedy class. If there’s anything I’m up to these days that feels like it might actually be truly honestly creative, it would be my dabbling into comedy improv. ‘Cos in improv, there sure as shit ain’t none of the “just following other people’s instructions” baggage I can weigh myself with in stitching and music.

Unfortunately, last night was the first time any of us had been in a class time that dragged us there after a full day’s work (prior classes have been on Sunday afternoons). It was the first class with this combination of folks—seven of us took class together, and four new faces. It was the first class after some weeks away.

A whole passel of reasons for things to be a bit off. Low energy, and unfamiliar energy. A little bit of being rusty and a little bit of not knowing all the way how to trust one another.

A few of us went to Qdoba for dinner afterwards, and, while walking from point A to point Q, a couple of us remarked (myself included). “Hmmm, I guess that was my week to suck.”

But here’s the refreshing part about that. Okay, It was my week to suck. But I remember the last class, when I’d have a week or two to suck, and then it’d get better. I’d get better. More open. More able to find my instincts, trust my instincts. More willing to build a real character and let the funny come from the sincere perspective of that character.

So this was my week to suck. And in a blissful change of pace, I’m not all twisted up about it. There will be next week. And it will be different. And I will learn from it all.

Today’s one of the appointed days to post a progress report on the Arts & Crafts Circle. We all promised to, as much as possible, post updates on our artsy-craftsy projects at the 1st and 15th of every month.* I was late with my start-of-April post, and it’s been rather busy since then, so I won’t have much progress to report. Oh well. Sometimes that’s how it goes.

My own update may not be especially exciting this time around, but I’m looking forward to seeing what my circle-mates have been up to. I’m looking forward with hapy anticipation, and—-I must admit—-a little bit of trepidation.

I can so easily get intimidated by seeing other people’s creativity. Last night, I was at a concert by my alma mater’s choir. Today, I was at a wonderful concert by a promising young indie folk singer-singwriter (who happens to be the yonger sister of a dear friend). And tonight I’ll be checking up on the Circle. And I admire and appreciate every one of those experiences.

And then I come home (or step away from the computer and into my own throughts) and feel cosmically inadequate.

I am tremendously grateful that I’m not victim to jealousy. I’m grateful that I can honestly enjoy seeing others’ talent, thrill at their skill and artistry without having my enjoyment sullied by all the rest of my baggage. But I still have that old luggage sitting here in the office. It makes me stare at this blog-theme I’ve set for myself—-these invisible dancing bears of creativity—-and wonder what the fuck I thought I was doing.

I struggle with the idea that “creative” is an adjective to which I have any legitimate claim.** I wish I did. I’d love to have the right to call myself creative. But I’m not sure I do.

I’m perhaps a technician. I know how to translate someone else’s needlework pattern from printing on paper to thread and fabric. I know how to sing someone else’s composition, although I don’t actually have a venue to employ that skill nowadays. I’m learning how to do improv, at least in the classroom setting.

Is any of that really creative—are they acts of artistic creation? Technique, undeniably. Artistry, perhaps. But creation?

I’m just not sure.

* I haven’t done mine yet, but I will before bedtime. Scout’s honour!

** For the record, I’ve wondered this and struggled this for quite a number of years. It’ll crop up on Minerva soon enough.

And well you might ask.

It all began with this photo:

It was one of the pictures I took for my first post over on the Arts & Crafts Circle. We all report about different artsy and crafty projects we do. My contributions thus far have all been about my slow progress on this cross-stitch picture I call the “teddy bear fence.” Except for my first few updates, some of the bears were dramatically more fully-stitched than others. I began referring to the less-stitched bears as the “invisible ursines,” a phrase that still makes me giggle from the wordy-nerdy fun of it.

So when I began thinking about creating a portfolio of blogs arrayed around particulalr topics, “Invisible Ursines” just had to become one of my new URLs.

Obviously, considering the phrase’s etymology, this will be my cross-stitch blog. But it’s also going to be the blog where I write about all my encounters with creative expression—either my own expressions (stitching, singing, improv) or the products of other people’s creative expression (concerts I attend, books I read, films I see).*

And I gotta admit that a metaphor about invisibility seems entirely too fitting for a blog built around a topic as simultaneously powerful and embodied and yet invisible as “creativity.” So the wordy-nerdy fun continues.

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* Everything except pre-recoded CDs to which I listen. They already have their own blog.