The Maker Of The Things

People told me I was artistic though I never really believed them. I was just bored with busy hands. 

I was frequently gifted those cheap art kits for holidays and birthdays. I loved to use the pastels. Watching them smear across the page was so satisfying. I played with the paints and made a mess.



But I didn’t know what to draw. My brain was incapable of creating anything new without plagiarizing someone else. I was artistic, but not creative. 

My mind only knew facts and words. There were no pictures. Reading a book without pictures left me largely in the dark. My mind knew nothing of fantasy or an alternate reality. 

I started to paint and draw on my bedroom wall. I took pictures that I found in life, and then used them as a skeleton to turn them into my own. I was ashamed of my lack of being a “real artist” and I felt like a fraud.


The world is only black & white to me. There is no grey area. And to me, a “real artist” draws with a pencil. I can only draw stick figures. So in my world, I am not a real artist. 

I did some art here and there though most of my manic times in my teens were focused on writing and website building. 

A year ago, when I was 34, I decided to try being an artist. I found a half painted and gutted grandfather clock tower. I quickly grabbed it, much to my husbands dismay. I’m sure he expected it to sit in the garage for months, as I have done with other projects.

But instead, I finished it and it was more amazing than I had imagined. Of course though, I used a stencil for the owl because my brain can’t come up with an image on my own.


Suddenly, because I was depression free for the first time in my life (due to medication), I wanted to decorate my environment. For the first time, I wanted to have nice things. 

Soon after finishing the clock tower, I came across two lamps on a curb. Again, my husband was confused why I would bring home two junky lamps.


. But, I used my creativity to pretend to be an artist and my husband was blown away. He called me an “artist” for the first time and I was giddy.


I kind of exploded in creativity after this. I did project after project. For the first time in my life, I was stable and very happy. So I expressed it with paint and glue.

It all started the same though. I would find an abandoned piece and get inspired. I often put my projects on my table and stare at it for a while, until I have decided on what to do. I also find myself using Google to search for an idea of mine, but then find no examples because my idea is my own.

My projects have become a huge therapeutic activity. It gives me a purpose and something to look forward to. I feel proud of my work and I no longer feel like I’m wasting my days.








Of course though, I don’t see myself as a “real artist” because I am not coming up with things in my own mind. I use stencils, literally and figuratively.

(*In my brain, everyone else is a “real artist”, except for me.)

I am an artist, but a fraud. I am artistic, but not creative. 

I experiment with paint and give abandoned things a second chance at life... because I have been given a second chance at life. Though, I believe I’m just bored with busy hands. But my hands are happy.



Love,

Duckie May - The Mad Hatter and The Maker Of The Things 






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