Wasting supplies

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It always nags me at the back of my head that whenever I posit that the fear of not being perfect is what holds most of us back, that there is another, fundamental reason for timidity in MAKING THE THING THAT IS NOT: the fear of wasting/using up art supplies.

The memories of not having enough paint in the tube — nor enough tubes — to create anything much bigger than 9”x12” is still burned into my brain. My few ventures into larger pieces were either drawings, collages, or house paint. When acrylics first became widely available to me — remember, I lived in small-town Newnan, GA — their relative cheapness compared to oils gave me a little more freedom.

But mostly I piddled along doing miniatures, or cutesy pen-and-ink-and-watercolor mushroomscapes. (Hey, it was the 70s…)

And then I was nominated to attend the Georgia Governor’s Honors Program (GHP) in Visual Arts.

Here’s the thing about GHP: Whatever talents/knowledge brought you to the program, they were merely the gateway to that vast horizon that the real world can offer. For the duration of the program, you are surrounded by literally hundreds of others just like you — and in the case of us visual artists, the opportunity to wallow, for once, finally, in enough art supplies.

I was a frustration to Dianne, my painting teacher. I was clearly poorly trained, but very bright, and I was creative, but given to “design” rather than just arting myself up all over the place. But she persevered, and at some point after the program was over, maybe October, it all became clear. (This is a point I never failed to drill into the heads of my instructional staff at GHP when I was in charge: It may not happen in front of you, but plant that seed and water it anyway.)

One of my most vivid memories of that summer (and I have many, 55 years ago!) was the last week of the program. We’d already submitted pieces for the final exhibit (I got one ink drawing in), and so we were just kind arting around. I set up a 24”x36” board, picked up a couple of squirt bottles of acrylic paint, and swooped some big old squirts onto the board. They dribbled, oozed; I watched.

Into the other end of the studio came a group of people, important people: They were wearing suits (in summertime, Macon, GA) and someone from the front office was with them. SURELY THESE WERE THE LEGISLATORS WE HAD BEEN TOLD ABOUT — IF THEY SAW US DOING BAD THINGS, THEY MIGHT DEFUND THE PROGRAM!

BAD THINGS! Like WASTING PAINT! Gentle reader, 16-year-old me panicked. (It has occurred to me since then that even if one of those VIPs had said anything, Dianne would have swooped in and deflected them.) I picked up a brush and without thinking smeared those blobs into something that filled the space and which I could reasonably defends as an ABORTIVE ATTEMPT.

Yes, 55 years later I still have it, water-stained at some point, still unframed, still unfinished (!) but still with me. Dianne’s assessment? “Why didn’t you do that last week?” Bless you, Dianne.

Back to my original point: I suspect many of us who work in the visual arts find that we are restricted by our budgets, our workspaces. What should you do if art supplies are just not in the budget?

Here are some suggestions:

Every single one of those artists created art — real art — with anything, with everything they could get their hands on. Wood scraps from construction sites; cardboard boxes and house paint; elmer’s glue and yard sale books; bottle caps and dollar store tempera paints.

STEAL FROM THE BEST — and remember, the best is not always the most expensive.