We’re All Nervous

A few months ago my kids and I volunteered at an art festival in the Plaza District. Zoe made balloon animals, and the kids and I manned a table of one long sheet of white paper for kids to draw on with crayons outside The Society building.

I’d like to say that it was a powerful experience. That I felt validated in my artistry. That we were a glorious example of a creative family spreading a love for art to others. That we inspired someone.

Hardly.

It was hot that day. Like wicked hot. And my kids had head colds and maybe even a touch of a fever before the morning was over. Zoe didn’t even have a voice. Zoe my people-person, couldn’t even talk. Luther, my 3-year-old, but gosh, I guess he was 2 at the time, spent most of his time under the art table, the only cool spot, whining about how he was hungry and hot and when could we go home.

People came to our table and gave us a look like, crayons and paper? That’s it? You’re kidding right? You’re supposed to entertain us. Apparently crayons and paper don’t hold a kid’s attention anymore. And the parents, you would have thought I had asked them to sell their home and live on a park bench, the way they stared at me when I asked them to draw something. Only one adult drew the whole day.

I felt like a wanna-be artist that day. The real artists were in the building. In the studios. Maybe the real artists didn’t have kids. They had freedom. They smoked cigarettes and drew nudes and grew up making art and teaching art and being integrated in an artist community. The real artists were on the stage in the same parking lot with us, strumming their guitar and singing the songs they had written.

And then, something interesting happened. The eclectic guy on the stage, singing his songs with powerful lyrics, he paused. He paused and he came out of his performance bubble and he said, sarcastically, into the microphone in a half-whisper, almost like we were hearing his inner-dialogue, “Wow, big crowd here today. So many people to play my songs for.  ” He chuckled nervously. For one split-second he was real and vulnerable, and I heard it. And then he went into another song. His lyrics were stellar. Was anyone hearing them?

His performance was followed by a girl songstress. She was a little less mellow, had some real energy and charisma. A real crowd pleaser and confident. She was confident.

During her performance one of the guys from The Society brought out some puppies he was fostering. Five puppies to be exact. 5 black puppies, each with a different colored collar. My kids went running to hold them and follow them. Others were pulled in by the puppies. Their attention diverted from songstress stage to wagging tails.

And then, something interesting happened. The eclectic girl on the stage, singing her songs with energetic chords, she paused. She paused and she came out of her performance bubble and she said, sarcastically, into the microphone in a half-whisper, almost like we were hearing her inner-dialogue, “Apparently the puppies are more exciting than my music. I am singing here people. Hard to compete with puppies.” She giggled nervously. For one split-second she was real and vulnerable, and I heard it. And then she went into another song. Her stage presence was stellar. Was anyone noticing her?

I left that day raw from the expectations that weren’t met. Raw from feeling like I was piece of sandpaper rubbing along the walls of the artistic community, scraping instead of breaking through. I left that day raw from a sense of failure that crayons and paper aren’t the tools that will free creative spirits, not even my own kids’ creative spirits, no matter how hard I try to sell them.

But I left that day hopeful, that maybe, just maybe, we’re all a bit nervous from time to time that what we have to offer isn’t enough. And we’re all a bit nervous that we aren’t going to break through the noise to draw attention to the message that burns within us. And we’re all a bit nervous that the crowd won’t have ears to hear or eyes to see. And maybe that’s just part of being an artist.

Sometimes we’ll blurt out sarcastically a half-whisper of our inner-dialogue into the microphone of life and then we’ll laugh our nervous vulnerable laugh and then with that out in the open, we’ll quick tune our guitar and just get on with our next song.