What do you get someone who has everything?

I've known this person for three years. I have never witnessed such a fervor for consumption in the form of buying things. Things: objects, clothing, furniture, food, adornments, etc. Always on the hunt to own the most special, unique, luxurious items that anyone could have or that no one else did. There were cabinets full of pretty little things, "smalls," unappreciated by the eyes that previously sought them out. They were safe now, in possession, tucked away from the possibility that someone else could have them. The floors were an obstacle course of sculptures, paintings leaned up against them and smaller objects that didn't yet have a home (as long as they were under the roof of the collector, I suppose they were). Walking around was full of moments where I would clumsily kick something and quickly look towards him in hopes he wouldn't notice. The couches and chairs had oversized props on them, or bowling balls. This was not a house of living, it was a house of looking. The first time I was invited to come inside, I was in awe of the chaotic curation. I opened every drawer, every cabinet so I could get a better idea of who this person was.

In short, this person was a collector. A hoarder might be a more appropriate term but for the sake of being sensitive, I'll be referring to them as the former.

He knew interesting people, the place in town to buy uncommon flowers, the beach access no one else knew about. Every time I went in public with him, he knew someone. So when his birthday came around, panic struck. What do you give someone who is so specific and already so rich in things?

I decided to force myself to call upon my inner artist and make something. Hell, I had to. After all, it appealed to his desire to own something no one else had. No, unfortunately it had to come from my heart. See, heart can be a difficult thing. Would whatever I made stick out like a sore thumb amongst everything else, unfit to be in the company of the carefully selected? My ego was panicking. What would it be? Of all the millions of possibilities, what would I choose?

I decided to make a piñata of sorts, or a fabulous box and fill it with small thoughtful things that could be used, enjoyed. The art would house the gift. There would be no bashing or ripping it open, of course. Hopefully, the box would be praised. Kept. Seen for all the importance it stood for, I care about you and I want you to know that.

I had to choose then what the box would be. Anything. A fish? What? Why a fish? Brass knuckles? Too hard to execute. A nose where they had to reach into the nostrils to retrieve what was inside? No. I decided on a lighter. A humble Bic, a perfect form to hold things inside. It's undeniable what it is (hopefully), fairly straightforward in construction and widely used by us all.

I decided my materials would be cardboard, tissue paper, tape, scissors, and an exacto knife. Simple. I posted in my neighborhood's Buy Nothing Facebook group and sounded the alarm that I needed boxes. Multiple boxes, backups for experimenting or temporary failure. I went to Target to find tissue paper and discovered they had metallic silver-perfect for the metal piece I wanted to replicate. I picked up the boxes on the way home. I had all of my materials laid out. I had a glass of wine and Sex and the City on in the background to keep me company. I was ready to create.

But there was a problem. I'm not an artist.

I suppose everyone feels that way from time to time, some unlucky ones-all the time. This was me. Who was I to decide to make something that someone else would find value in and hopefully cherish? Would whatever I made look like a kindergarten project in the midst of art chosen by a seasoned critic? Despite my reservations, I had no choice but to do it anyways since I put all my weight in this idea (plus, it was too late to figure something else out).

I had a humble little lighter as my muse and got to work. I cut out the base, I eyeballed everything, winged it, and somehow managed to conceive a solution on how to duplicate the flint wheels out of cardboard covered in metallic tissue paper. It was beautiful. I was so proud. It's exactly as I imagined it would look. I was excited to give it to him, something he wasn't expecting at all. He didn't necessarily want it but then again, he didn't knew it existed. It didn't, before today.

On the morning of his birthday, I drove to his house to present these gifts to him. I was apprehensive, hoping his enthusiasm would rival my efforts. I pulled up, closed my eyes, handed him the lighter, and prepared for the audible glee I was prepared for him to have.

And he did. It felt like MY birthday, to feel like something I thought up, planned and executed was appreciated. To know that he felt special receiving a gift (literally) filled with love. It was a real exchange of knowing, caring and doing. He later sent me the photo of the lighter I made being held in an oversized hand he happened to have. There it was, my art coexisting in this awesome place. It felt validating in some way like I made it into a niche underground gallery.

It was a real moment of vulnerability, to do something creative. I mean, it always is. But it really felt rewarding, inspiring even to create more. I wouldn't necessarily call myself an "artist" yet. But taking that step meant a lot to the part of me that I've ignored for a long time. And now, here I am writing this story.