the Art of Being Here

I put my heart and soul into every piece I write—sometimes I look for humor in life’s moments and other times I wrestle with memory, fear, and the search for meaning in a world that keeps shifting beneath our feet.

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Who says summer camps are for kids? I for one can tell you that adults need them too. Why? Because I did one. This summer I signed up for a 9 day art summer camp at the Israel museum. No artistic background required. Those 9 days have left an indelible mark on me.

I was very excited about this course/camp as I have loved art since a young age. In my teens, I obsessively sketched portraits for anyone who would sit for me and when I was out of live subjects, I sketched movie stars. But as the years went on, my sketch book got produced less and less frequently.

Motherhood endowed me with the misguided notion that any creative activity requiring more than half an hour was a frivolous waste of time. In my eight month of pregnancy with my first child, I joined a sketching class for the morning. I do not remember what I drew, but I do recall that this was the last time I held a 2B pencil in my hands for many years to come.

I encouraged my kids to be creative. In fact, my daughter, the most artistic of the lot of them, graduated in fashion design many years ago. Her precise sketching is far superior to my juvenile scribblings and her paintings from her teens still cover my living room walls.

By the time I hit my fifties, my passion for art had been reduced to art appreciation. I made many excuses to myself for not going back to my sketch pad. A sketch or painting is only complete when you call the last stroke. And even then, you might change your mind. How could I pursue a hobby that went beyond the limitations of time? For the past few years, however I have given myself permission to take out my sketch book only during the holidays. A two month school vacation meant I could sketch guilt free. At least in theory, anyway.

And this year I started embroidery. I think the fact it didn’t make a mess appealed to me. My punch projects, each one growing in size and technical demands practically saved me during the war shutdown. I never dreamed that a wool supply store could be such an exciting place. But the artist in me- the furious sketcher, the water painter, the one with her fingernails full of bits of oil pastels…well, she was collecting dust in a forgotten drawer.

Until this summer.

Each day of my ‘summer camp’, I entered the parking lot of the giant complex of the Israel Museum with a feeling of joyous trepidation. This wonderful museum housed so many beautiful objects - and I would be making my own! The coffee shop was nice, too.

There is a whole section of the museum devoted to art education. It was thirty degrees outside, but the museum employees wore wool sweaters as the AC worked full power, partially to preserve all the world famous art the building housed.

Our art instructor, Michal- a woman my age- would give us a few brief instructions, which usually involved us working with materials we had never touched, or combining two techniques in a way we’d never dreamed of. One day we sat in a single file circle and drew the back of the person in front of us. Another activity was sitting opposite someone and drawing their face using one single line. Another morning she took us out into the wonderful museum gardens and had us render its trees with dry ink on a brush. Nothing was ever simple. In fact, on more than one occasion I ignored her and did my own thing, which actually didn’t turn out that bad.

I didn’t know people actually could do things with a dry brush and printing ink.

She gave us only the briefest of feedback other than saying ‘this is interesting’. But she liked to take our finished products at the end of each session and lay them on the floor next to each other, creating a collage. ‘Art is like handwriting,’ Michal told us ‘No two pictures are the same’. And when we saw what each person had made of the task, her words rang true.

no two pictures are alike. Same materials, same subject, same instructions.

She constantly told us to ignore the ‘little crow’ on our shoulder that would tell us our work wasn’t good enough. All art is art. And we had our crises, when we had no clue what she wanted or the ‘little crow’ was squawking too loudly and interfering with our flow- but each one us finally found her own little space between the lines and brushstrokes. I, too, resolved to stop regarding my work as ‘messy’ and begin appreciating its movement and dynamic shading almost as much as the process itself.

I don’t need to be a master, but copying one is nice.

I realized that art is the only place where I could be truly free to project my unique view of the world without worrying about what others would say. After so many years, I was finally conversing in a language that was as universal as it was personal. And I didn’t need to be Rembrandt to do it.

Michal would put music on. It was often Argentinian or Spanish. In order that our brain didn’t get distracted with words, she claimed. “Don’t overthink it-” she’d remind us to “use your eyes. You think you see but you’re just conjuring up pre-existing symbols. Look closely.” And we did. We drew trees and sculptures, we sat in front of impressionists in the gallery and copied brush strokes and perspective. And suddenly, a whole new world was unveiled before us- a world of movement, of light and shade, of texture, of mood, playfulness and of vibrant color.

Every day of these precious nine days was a moving meditation on the missing beauty of things I had previously taken for granted, or barely noticed at all.

Things began to happen. Suddenly while out on a walk, I would spot the way the afternoon cast its purple glow on an olive branch, or I’d become mesmerized by the intricate shapes of the bark of the tree. In considering how I would render it, I was absorbing its essence.

In between our frenetic bouts of creativity, we were taken on guided tours of the museum and its exhibitions. Michal showed us the therapeutic value of art. She told stories of how she had worked with soldiers with PTSD and neuro-divergent children, showing them a language that helped them regain their moorings in a frightening and confusing world.

As for me, all I knew was that I was fully immersed - never quite wishing to surface. When I worked, nothing else existed. Everything was on hold as I filled my page (if I didn’t, Michal made sure I did). In my frenzied passion of shapes and color, I felt little urge to join in the mundane chit chat of the teachers. It was baffling that they could discuss their work whilst grasping a crayon or brush. I wanted to stay in my cocoon of inner stillness and lock myself away from the outside world.

And the end product? Sometimes I was satisfied and sometimes less so. And it really didn’t matter too much. Because I was doing all of this for myself.

Upon finishing the course, and immediately set about purchasing art supplies which I have actually since used. I have become obsessed with drawing cacti and have illustrated all my house plants.

artistic center stage for my plants

Amazingly, I have discovered that I have a lot more patience than I realized. I completed a pointillist picture (postcard size) of the beach in Nahariya and it took me more than four hours.

pontillism is the point.

The greatest thing is that unlike my writing, I have no thoughts of of where this thing might grow to. No sales, no exhibitions, no published books and no followers. Just me and the immense beauty of this world.

The other major plus is that when I’m drawing or painting, I’m not on my phone. I am the producer of my own life. I can draw with music or in silence. I’m in communion with myself, and it’s quite nice, actually. The page in front of me is static, but what goes on it moves in slow time with my eyes and imagination.

Sometimes I wonder where my words have gone. They’re probably trying to find the right colors.

In our algorithmic world, we need to break free. We need to scribble, glue, splash paint, curl, shape, snip and scratch. We don’t need perfection- I just feel like that little creative blob that was inside me for so many years somehow found its way to the light of day. Because that’s where it needs to be right now.

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