Right-handed Scissors, Sister Suffer, Left-of-Center Me

When I think about my relationship with scissors, my shoulders crinkle up, no joke. The same way paper shrinks away and crinkles up in my clumsy scissor hand grip. Scissors are, in many ways, the bane of my existence - the one thing that evades mastery in the midst of a recent explosion of creativity. Granted, if I took the time to study the many types of scissors, if I saved the money to build a collection of well-made examples of this fine invention - if I even had any clue whatsoever about how to make scissors conspire in my art . . .if I had patience maybe . . . who knows what I would be capable of?

My late sister, who was a true artist, stunted by addiction and self-doubt had talent. She wielded this fine tool with utter grace. I eventually learned to forge an artistic path of my own, but I kept my nose out of visual art for many years to hold space for her to dominate. She was fragile and beautiful. I truly wanted to support her sense of self, and I did not want to become good at something that belonged to her. I had plenty of other things I could focus on. Besides, I appeared to have next to zero visual art ability. So, while I always wanted to challenge my limitations, letting this one be didn’t constitute any loss. Or so I thought . . . given my history with scissors.

It all started in kindergarten, as far as I remember, with pointy metal right-handed scissors with green plastic ring tops. Not that left-handed scissors existed. Or perhaps my elementary school just did not keep any around. But judging by the fact that they never actually called the right-handed scissors anything but "scissors," I never knew left-handers existed. So, it makes no difference to this story whether they did or didn't. They were not to my radar. They were not even a figment of my imagination. All I knew and all I had to conform to were the right-handers, and that was what I had as a support for my growth as an artist.

Right-handed scissors don't cut right. Not for me. Never did. And left-handers don't either because I never learned to use them. So, in a world of straight cuts and perfect edges, I was a total outcast. The big writing bump on my left hand barely fit in the tiny loop for the bottom fingers if I held scissors in my left when my teacher wasn't looking. And when she was, she mercilessly scolded me, yanking the scissors off my nubby fingers and jamming them onto my right hand.

I felt like I had four heads and froze.

Every time.

"Here we go again." Fire-singed cheeks. And under her cross gaze, I would try for the millionth time, to dominate those defiant instruments of precision - the stupid paper bending over them like rubber, never slicing, mean old scissor hinges squeaking and hissing at my insistence. I would trade in my scissors over and over, hoping their was a friendly pair in the old metal coffee can waiting to help me slice my way out of the web of eyes and jeers, to help me use minutes like everybody else, to finish on time. Just once. But the paper or fabric never obeyed a single pair.

String or yarn, I could lay over the blade and pull until it snapped. It wasn't a clean snap, but it did the job.

With paper, I used the fold and tear method of straight lines. For curved lines, I would produce sunshine circles with "rays" of light poking out all around, or beg a friend to help. For cloth, I often had to ask the teacher and endure her sighs and hmms, once I finally got to the front of the "teacher help" line. I didn't get any of the "Ooooh, this is nice. Keep going," comments. Sighs were the kindest response. I would hope, as I waited, for just a sigh.

So, basically, that killed my desire to do any art involving scissors. And I kind of just assumed it was a general "art" talent deficiency and was not very confident in any of my others art skills. I convinced myself I could not draw a straight line or a circle as well. The clock would tick and the 5 minute warning would come, and I would still have a blank paper with black eraser smudges and the vague outline of a line or shape resembling a circle.

So art was never something I considered among my talents. Not by a long shot. I watched the artists with baited breath, and worked on accepting it wasn't for me.

Around 10th grade, I learned a thing or two about left-handed people and how they can access pathways to creativity in way that many people can't. I kind of shrugged at first. But then, I became a musician of sorts and a theater freak.

At some point, along the line, I got a hold of a pair of left-handed scissors, but I had no idea what to do with them. I had been using my right for so long. "I can't cut." To this day, I fold and rip if I can.

My sister drew and painted and crafted with precision. She was into design, so her lines were straight or curved just so. They did what she told them to do. She used scissors to make models and clothes, and collage. It was her thing. She was fragile. I stayed out of it.

When her hands started to shake, it was like the rug got pulled from under her. I felt her pain, but her connection to the substances that stole her precision baffled me. It was hard to let myself be good at things because it seemed to hurt her and drive her further from me. And she was already so far away.

Eventually, I took off and began to travel. I got out of the way. And I also got to test my limits. I never touched visual art though.

When she stopped making art, we all suffered. I knew where this was leading deep inside. So odd. So tragic. That death might be like respite from the repression of her artistic talent. I think she is making art now, free of any lens the world may have imposed, whose glare she wasn't able to handle.

I took her art supplies from her room. I kept them safe. I wanted to make something for her.

Nothing did her justice, and yet, she was in everything I tried.

I don't get it. It's almost like she lent me a mutated form of her abilities so I could ontinue her legacy. That’s how I got into furniture. She loved interior design.

Almost everything I try turns out cool. None of it has straight edges - it's all sunshine circles and chaos. Nothing like her work, but it's got bite. It's got heart. It's got rebellion against right-handed scissors and anything else that can hold a person back. It's ours.

I still rip. Most of the time I skip the folding.

I don't paint in pure colors either, only textures, to either hide or embrace my signature imprecision. And it works for me.

If I tried for purity, I'd be back in that primary school art class perseverating over a line and being balked at. I am a mom now. So, even if that effort ever were to produce a perfect product, I cannot dedicate the time and frustration to it.

Oddly enough, I can draw and I can carve. These pictures are all first attempts. It is my sister's influence. Her gift in me. She gave me a sense of color, too, but it is my own. I can't do simple like her. I love collage and decoupage because it "contains multitudes" (Walt Whitman reference)). It contains my crazy love/hate affair with scissors. It contains my sister. And it contains me. It heals us both and weaves our stories together. This Midas touch is sustained by authenticity and love. I don't know if I will ever be able to sell enough to cover my time, but I think I might invest in a few good pairs of scissors and try to learn to cut someday.