A Clean Canvas

WRITTEN BY FAITH FARRELL

My mother has recently informed me that I used to paint the walls, and I'm not talking roller and pole painting but full-blown finger paints and crayons, going gangbusters while ignoring the brand new easel standing in the corner.

Evidently, my instinct to create was innate.

Many folks claim they aren't artists because they can't draw. Art isn't defined by this. Everyday, we make artful choices, carbonating the flat visuals around us into fizz and flair.  From gardening, clothes, cake decorating, selecting a favorite coffee mug to picking the color of our car, we make creative choices.

In my mid-20s, I often took the bus to work. One fateful day, I noticed posters announcing that a store was having a "Buy one, Get one free" sale on automotive spray paint. I grabbed the cord for the bus to stop and in a fevered fog, zombie-like, arrived at the beacon of canned colors calling my name. Hauling my bags of rainbow magic, I hoped I had a plan.

My roommate came home to see a prism paint haze hovering in the air as I was anointing my car.  There was a long silence, then, "Your dad is gonna kill you." The nosy neighbor across the street pretended to vacuum her rug, pushing the vac over the same patch of carpet in front of the picture window while inspecting my pop-up art performance. Her undercover spy vacuuming wasn't as sneaky as she believed.

This car had two magical powers: 1. I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about theft. 2. It was a blessing/curse because basically anyone could track me at any time driving my wacky wagon. Thankfully, I had no stalkers. While fueling up on a road trip, 400 miles from home, an unknown couple cornered me exclaiming, "We know where you live!" Charming, yet creepy.

It wasn't just my car I had to funkify. I spray painted polka dots all over the kitchen of my first apartment. I painted my shoes with zebra stripes. I plastered my walls with a collage of (and I admit this with deep shame) Scott Baio. When I ran out of wall space, I glued photos on the window shades, allowing him to visit me in multiples at night. When friends spent the night, I transformed our house into the Farrell Hotel, complete with homemade room service menus and comment cards. I still owe an apology to my brother, whom I made dress up as a bellhop.

We surround ourselves with personal versions of beauty and meaning. We strive to overcome all the stresses and sorrows that land in our lap with small offerings of art, whether flaunting a favorite hat, hanging new curtains or buying flowers for no reason.

Art doesn't need to be framed nor expensive, hanging in a museum or validated by critics. Daily, we express ourselves artfully through seemingly simple choices. We may not have the Mona Lisa hanging above our couch, but we can still have her smile.

My dad obviously didn't kill me, but I'm pretty sure I stunned him into a months-long silent treatment. To be frank, he had ample warning early on when I was 3 and painted those walls.

My mom recently shared that S.O.S. steel wool pads removed the paint from our walls, paving space for new designs. 

Sometimes stuck, we must try to scrub in order to conjure forth a clean canvas. NCM