A Composite

Some folks hone in on a particular hobby and spend a lifetime as a devoted follower. Others jump from one endeavor to another in a mad chase to find the ultimate— nothing lasts too long before it pales and they must seek another outlet. Of course it is possible to juggle a number of balls and engage fully in each.

I'm engaged in the juggling of balls. A section in my basement holds the odds and ends of art pursuits. Once I signed up for a bookmaking course, bought the requisite materials, made a hard—backed journal in class and then fell in love with hand made papers to use for the covers. I found a store that sold sheets of paper, each sheet created by an artist. I bought several sheets--rice paper with bamboo embedded in the paper, a rough textured paper I called the paper of many colors and a muted gray sheet with flamboyant streaks of red.

We learned how to hand stitch the papers for the insides of the book. After the class ended I made myself a journal and then I created five more books. I loved the details, selecting the papers, folding the signatures, even the sewing. I disliked having so many materials in disarray. The kitchen utensils vied for space with the awl, thread, boards, papers, and glues. You need a place to leave everything out. The putting away and taking out of the varied materials became a pain. In time I packed it all away and put it in the basement.

My basement art corner is the place of lost pursuits. But there's a commonality.

Several years ago I took a watercolor course and bought the supplies listed as necessary. When I almost added the brown paint stained water to a recipe thinking it was beef broth the watercolors ended up in the basement. I did buy a small box of watercolors. Each color remains in its own pan. Instead of large pieces of paper, soaked and taped to a wooden board, I use a small watercolor pad.

Two plastic boxes, read large, contain a history of possibilities and rejections.

Scratchboard pens, graphite pencils and charcoal, gouache pigments, hog bristle brushes, oil pastels, and odds and ends of my foray into oil painting.

Products remain around the house, an oil painting of the canyons in Utah, a large watercolor of flowers and several landscapes completed in a Chinese Brush painting class. I haven't given up on the Chinese ink drawings because I only do them in class—avoiding the taking out and putting away of materials.

Downsizing. My sketchbook, mechanical pencils, assortment of pens, and small set of watercolors fit me. They travel easily.

When I go into the art store my interest is piqued by all the possibilities. Then I remember how I want to fit everything into a small space and turn away from the air brushes, encaustic supplies, and soft pastels.

I knew someone who loved fish, tropical fish. One day I noticed that the aquariums with their pumps and consistent bubbling sound even invaded the kitchen. When he had a tank built with extra heavy glass he moved his bed into the living room.

"You need to downsize," I said. "Remember your first guppies?"

Now if I could just find a silk screen course given at the right time...