Maybe art isn't what you think it is.

If there’s one thing I love, it’s starting a piece of writing with a seeming non-sequitur (that of course will actually be a clever and delightfully relevant hook into the heart of the prose). Here, I’ll start by owning the fact that I HATE playing with my six-year-old daughter. HATE. Like, I would rather stay up all night dealing with a stomach bug than play dolls for half an hour. I love her so much, but I find basically all play intolerable. I hope she doesn’t read this someday (Charlotte, it’s nothing personal).

Fortunately I love more than one thing, and high on the love list is art and all things crafty--and kiddo shares that love. Thank god, because through that common ground we’ve been able to bond over shared experiences that we both enjoy immensely, and I seriously doubt we would have ever been able to bond over playtime. It just makes me way too grumpy.

Watching a child create something is such an incredible experience. It’s so different from the process an adult goes through to make art, and I think it’s strongly linked to the way a child experiences the world as compared to us jaded, cynical grown-ups. I would argue that a child, with nothing more than a pair of scissors, some construction paper, and some glue, is capable of creating purer art in a more joyful way than most skilled adult artists--and if we’re talking about art in its purest form, that’s exactly how it should be.

As an adult, I enjoy a range of positive emotions when I create art: anticipation, relaxation bordering on meditation, satisfaction, and even straight up happiness depending on how well that particular creation evolves. At the same time, just because adult life is what it is, my time to create still has to be scheduled into my life and my expectations for what I create are high and specific. These realities are often a recipe for frustration, and while they don’t eliminate the joy of the experience, they do dampen it somewhat.

Adult art is COMPLICATED, regardless of what you’re making. If you’re inclined towards artistic expression and you’re passionate enough to carve time out of your busy life, you’re probably tackling a legit project. If you’re painting, it’s with a set of fancy acrylics and a canvas, and clay might involve a pottery wheel. Jewelry-making requires, like, six different tools and a whole variety of tiny pieces, at least if you want to make jewelry that most adults would willingly wear.

It’s funny, as I try to articulate these thoughts in writing, I realize that it’s actually really difficult for adult art to be a pure form of self-expression. At least it is for me, and the reason might be found in this definition of visual art:

“[A] visual object or experience consciously created through an expression of skill or imagination.”

Skill OR imagination. Aha. Maybe that operative “OR” is where adults overcomplicate art, by mistaking it for “AND.”

I’m guilty for sure. As much as I love basically all forms of art, I’ve also fallen far, far down the rabbit hole. I’m basically a supply hoarder, because a) I want to be ready to do any project at any moment, and b) if I’m going to do a project, I want to do it right… and doing it “right” means doing it with skill, along with the requisite creativity. If I can’t do it right, I kind of don’t want to do it. And when my frustration levels start to rise and I feel the urge to throw a painting in the trash, I start to wonder if I’ve lost my way. Is this what I want art to be for me?

Then I watch my daughter create, and it’s pure beauty and inspiration. While I’m standing at my art table angrily trying to mix the exact shade of beige I need for one patch of sand in my beach painting and select a brush that will make it look, well, sandy, she’s quietly sitting on the rug nearby with a pair of scissors, a pad of patterned craft paper, and some rhinestone stickers. Twenty minutes later, I’m dejectedly waving the white flag of defeat and wondering why I bothered starting the painting in the first place when she quietly approaches and taps me on the shoulder.

“Mommy, are you ok?”

“Yes, sweetie, why do you ask?”

“Well, you look sad. Don’t you like to paint?”

Ouch. She’s right. I DO like to paint, so why am I letting this one patch of sand ruin the experience for me? Who cares if I don’t have the right paintbrush and the texture looks slightly more grassy than sandy? Painting is a hobby. It’s supposed to be fun.

“Oooooooh mommy, I LOVE your painting, it’s so beautiful! Also here, I made this for you! I love you Mommy.”

And she hands me a heart that she cut out of paper and decorated with 18 rhinestone stickers. I’m struck by two things. One, she's looking at my painting like it’s a Van Gogh that deserves to be hanging in a museum. SHE doesn’t care about that patch of sand, or any of the other spots that don’t live up to my exacting standards. Two, while I was wrestling with an array of fancy paints and tools and spiraling into frustration, she took three simple tools--scissors, cardstock, and stickers--and created something beautiful that expressed her love for me and her joy at the process of creation.

That’s what art should be, and I feel so fortunate to have this amazing little person to remind me. She reignites my childlike love of art, and she inspires me to find joy in even the smallest expressions of creativity. Maybe next time I’ll put down the paintbrush and pick up the scissors and rhinestones, and see what kind of magic I can make.