What is Art?

I recall, in the early 1980s, walking down State Street in Madison and hearing a loud roar. The source was a man named Art. I presumed that he lived near State Street as he washed windows for downtown businesses. When he wasn’t working, he would lean on a mailbox and sometimes bellow a roar. Some entrepreneur had the idea to create t-shirts. On one side it read, “What is Art?”. On the other, it proclaimed, “Art is a window washer.” I remember red shirts with a black silk-screened outline of a man with a squeegee.

I always struggled with Art, not the man, the class. Next to Phy. Ed. or Woodworking, it was probably my most challenging class in school. I was rather clumsy, couldn’t color inside the lines very well and I wasn’t patient enough to cut straight or take the time to sand the wood properly. My mother, however, is a wonderful artist. Linda can also draw well. My friend Matt does incredible work with both wood and stained glass. I’ve long judged myself against the abilities of those around me. I suspect that is just human nature. Either that or it is another of my idiosyncrasies.

Once I started focusing on sunrises (and yes, I mean that literally!) I began to share my work. I have roughly fifty designs on greeting cards and have been fortunate enough to display my work in public a few times. My favorite and most popular photo is entitled, For Christine. I took it the day after a dear friend lost her battle with cancer. It was also my daughter’s 20th birthday. I was standing on the beach, walking away from the sun when I just had a sense. I turned and captured a lone goose, heading off into the sunrise. I thought of my friend; I thought of my daughter; I stopped in my tracks in the sand, watching this spirit soaring.

My friend was also a colleague. She was an amazing teacher and the tragedy of her death touched us all. We reached out to her family and had been having fundraisers to help with expenses. I created cards and Jean, a friend from Two Rivers, approached me about making paintings from my photographs. She ended up doing several and they were donated to auctions to help raise money. In the process of working with her, she referred to me as an artist. Jean not only paints but makes amazing wood sculptures with a chain saw. I am in awe of her work! Being assigned the title “artist” from her cast doubts from within. I had been alive for a little over 50 years at that point and it was the first time I had been called an artist. That stopped me in my tracks as much as the flying goose did. Eventually, I was able to embrace the title and admit that yes, I AM an artist. This wasn’t easy for me to accept. I’ve gone to several writing workshops at the Milkweed Mercantile at Dancing Rabbit. One thing that Frankie and Jennifer have i

nstilled in us is that if one writes, she is a real writer. You don’t need to be published or make a living from writing to earn that classification. In a sense, the bar is set rather low.

Like my siblings, I took piano lessons. I think I stopped around age ten or eleven. I’m tempted to blame my crotchety, less-than-attentive piano teacher but in reality, it was the Bobcat Boogie and my unwillingness to practice that probably ended my piano soloist career long before it was ever launched. Upon comparison, I don’t quite

measure up to the norm of what a piano player should be.While I can read music, I struggle to combine both the left and right hands. Actually, I can play Silent Night or Mary Had a Little Lamb quite well, even way up tempo. My piano development is stuck about at that degree of difficulty.

When I play piano, I play chords, with some noodling with my right hand. Often, I end up in tears when I play. The piano is an outlet for my emotions. It is rare that I play for anyone else. On the times that I am heard, I have had people comment positively. I played the piano in the common house at Dancing Rabbit one time when I thought it was empty. It turns out there was someone doing prep work in the kitchen. After I stopped, she told me that my playing was the highlight of her day. I get to work quite early. Sometimes, I will take ten minutes to play to process my emotions before the start of the day. A few months ago, a co-worker commented and I was unaware that the grand piano sound carried from the auditorium down the hall to her classroom.

What is art, besides a window washer? Art is anything you want it to be and art is however you define it. With that guideline, I am an artist, and a writer, and a musician. What art do you do?

​While I can read music, I struggle to combine both the left and right hands. Actually, I can play Silent Night or Mary Had a Little Lamb quite well, even way up tempo. My piano development is stuck about at that degree of difficulty.

When I play piano, I play chords, with some noodling with my right hand. Often, I end up in tears when I play. The piano is an outlet for my emotions. It is rare that I play for anyone else. On the times that I am heard, I have had people comment positively. I played the piano in the common house at Dancing Rabbit one time when I thought it was empty. It turns out there was someone doing prep work in the kitchen. After I stopped, she told me that my playing was the highlight of her day. I get to work quite early. Sometimes, I will take ten minutes to play to process my emotions before the start of the day. A few months ago, a co-worker commented and I was unaware that the grand piano sound carried from the auditorium down the hall to her classroom.

What is art, besides a window washer? Art is anything you want it to be and art is however you define it. With that guideline, I am an artist, and a writer, and a musician.