Lighten Up

When times are tough, look for a glimmer of light in the darkness. In other words: buckle down, keep your chin up and make sure your eyes are wide open. If you look hard enough, the saying goes, you’ll eventually see a sliver of hope cutting through the blackness.

Easy to say. But recent times have been tougher than other, and a little glimmer wasn’t going to cut it. Besides, in those early months of stay-at-home, lockdown purgatory, a glimmer seemed a far off fantasy, and I was sick of waiting.

If I wanted light, I would have to create it.

***

As a child, I loved to make things. I was happiest caked in paste, dusted in glitter, working my crayons to nubs and transforming dried leaves and macaroni into masterpieces. In my eyes, every work was perfection – the Met was great and all, but I was pretty sure the magnetized gallery on our fridge was cooler.

Then I got older, and gradually stopped creating. I got a C in Art History – albeit I slept through the midterm – and I couldn’t define perspective to save my life. I mean, is that something with a definition, even? I thought about crafting as a hobby, but dismissed that idea. Unless you're good enough to sell in an art fair, why waste the time? Besides, I concluded, I was too old for such frivolous activities. Art wasn’t for fun, it was for Real Artists.

When I finally met a Real Artist, I realized his opinion differed. Thomas painted for a living, sure, but he insisted that was not the only reason to do it. When I wondered where to start, his answer? Anywhere. But what if I do something wrong, I asked, and he just smiled and told me it was impossible.

Of course, I married him. But that was later. First I took his advice.

When I went through an 80’s punk rock infatuation, I knotted and ripped and safety pinned all my t-shirts. None were quite perfect, so I hit up the dollar store, and that led to an interest in sewing. It took two weeks to get the secondhand machine working – not due to the Singer itself, but my technical deficiencies – and even then, my stitches were never even. But what mattered, Thomas and I agreed, was how much my face glowed every time I pressed the petal and heard whirring.

My interest in textiles lasted a year, then I moved I moved to collage. After that, miniatures, which led to dioramas, then polymer clay, wire twisting and resin. Our floors went from sticky to splattered to an endless flurry of scrap paper. Sequin in the shower, yarn in the drain, papercut hands and charcoal under fingernails…in that chaos, I felt most like myself, like that excited little girl who made things.

Now, ten years later, my husband still makes art for a living. And I still make art, for no reason other than it makes me happy.

In that decade, I finally settled on a medium, and once I had, I never turned back. Paper is raw and beautiful in the simplicity; a blank sheet fills is filled with possibility. There is something magnificent in seeing to the tiniest details, and cutting away bits and pieces until an image emerges, full of life. The heft of scissors on heavy cardstock, giving a satisfying thwack as they divide and conquer; the delicate scratch of a shiny new #11 on a brand new sheet from the pad.

In time, I went from basic cuttings to more intricate designs, then began to play with layering. One sheet in front of the other, the image only coming clearer. Soon, I was creating entire worlds, each deeper and more real than the last. Still, something was missing.

Then I found light, and it all came together.

***

By now, I have made more Lightboxes than I can count. Some start as pattern that are shared in papercutting social media groups – yes, there are many, and I belong to all of them. After that, I began to alter the images, and create my own. I pick images of places I long to visit, to learn about, to exist within, even in box form. Even just for a little while

When a box is finished, sometimes I’ll display it on a bookshelf or table, but there are so many most go into storage.. Like that little girl who twisted pipe cleaners into mysterious shapes and glued shells into fantastical configurations, it isn’t as much about the final product than the creation. In the end, none are exactly how I imagined they would be, and each one perfect it the imperfections.

As soon as I’m finished, I’m already looking for the next project. Searching for the next world to cut into layers, assemble and illuminate to life. Making lightboxes brings me a sense of calm and peace I cannot find elsewhere.

Then came the pandemic, and I needed that light more than ever.

***

Like so many others, the pandemic was hard on my husband and I. We lost several jobs, then lost our apartment - and half our belongings - to a burst pipe in our apartment. When we finally found a new home and relocated, Thomas’s mother got sick, and his father followed soon after. It was the roughest year of our lives.

We were not alone in that feeling. I told myself that again and again..

In the pain and apprehension, the isolation and confusion, it is easy to fall into the darkness. When those moments approached, I quickly took out my scissors and paper and utility knife. Instead of letting the fear and uncertainty seep under my skin, I focused on making a world that was better. Cutting in from paper, lighting it from within, and letting it transport me. When I looked into those Lightboxes, I remembered the beautiful places I’d seen, and the diverse, extraordinary people who populate them. The winding canals of Venice, the vast desert of New Mexico. When I looked in those Lightboxes, I imagined a lifted stay-at-home order, and the exotic places I might one day visit. Creating these universes, and remembering this moment would not last forever, was not a glimmer of hope. It was a bursting, 1000 Watt LED illumination of the bright future that was inevitable.

Those Lightboxes made me feel less isolated and alone. That’s when I got an idea. Instead of shoving them on a shelf or packing them up, maybe I’ll give them away. For the people I love and admire, for those whom I thankful. Maybe these boxes of light would remind them they are not alone either.

***

I made a box for my cousin in Michigan. Come the pandemic, he lost his job, then he lost two friends to Covid. Even then, he was still the one people leaned on for compassion and advice. I made him a lightbox with the silhouette of a samurai warrior, his form illuminated in a mystical blue lake. My cousin is an expert in martial arts, but there was another reason; he has the heart of a warrior.

My friend Aesop is elderly and lives alone, but he’s never really alone. As a young man, he was a surfer and actor and animal lover who raised horses. Though no longer mobile, he is still sociable and charming, lighting up every room with stories of his past adventure. Everywhere he goes, people know him. Then came the pandemic, and with underlying health issues, he was forced into isolation. Luckily, he had his best friend, Lady. A little terrier, she turned eleven this year, and he always celebrates her birthday. Unfortunately, when his health took a turn last month, he had choice but leave her with a neighbor and move into the hospital. So I made him box of Lady with her name in script, and a warm amber light that perfectly matches her fur. I put it across from his hospital bed, right in his line of sight, and he said every time he sees it he forgets he’s in the hospital.

I made a Lightbox for his caretakers as well, with the brightly lit words Nurses Are Heroes; the Perfusionist who operates his lung-heart machine commented how much he liked it. So I made him a tropical island vista to match the beach theme in his living room.

For the security guard in our building – originally from Mexico, he works to support his whole family – I made a Lady of Guadalupe. No matter how tired he may be, he is always there with a prayer and warm smile.

For the heartbroken woman down the hall, I made a girl confidently walking a tightrope over a sparkling city; for my Sci-Fi loving friend, the Starship Enterprise bathed in stars. I made many, many more, and gave every single one away. People smiled and hugged me and sometimes even cried. They thanked me for bringing light into their lives, but the part they didn’t know? In doing so, I was the one who lit up, and not just a glimmer….I glowed from the inside out.