An Ode to Mediocre Art

I find joy in all of it. The burst of inspiration that swells in the moments leading up to a new project. The musty perfume lingering on second-hand yarn torn from its cheap plastic bundle. I find the two-dollar tag in the dusty corners of my craft space when I sweep weeks later. I may or may not have finished said project, but I’ve most definitely started another project since then--probably more than one.

I’ll admit it- I have a problem. Somehow this problem feels both debilitating and life-giving. It pushes me to my limits, while other days it holds me back from them. It’s a way of life I've fallen in love with, yet it so often haunts me with a sense of failure and mediocrity.

I suppose this problem is love. I'm in love with creating. And this love is ever-fascinated by the intricacies of so many mediums. I simply cannot settle for one.

Crochet was my first love. I had a set of 5 colourful hooks but I always gravitated to the biggest one of the set. The illusion of speed alongside the comfort of the softest, chunkiest yarn was delicious and every second was a feast. Infinity scarves were in, so I made a few for me, and one for my mom. They never seemed to turn out exactly how I wanted, but it was ok nonetheless because I had made them. A few of the hooks have disappeared over the years, but the rest live at home in a large zipper pouch, accompanied by a myriad of calligraphy pens and pencil crayons. (I must mention that my yellow hook is the most well-travelled of them all, spending many months with me making oodles of scrunchies for new friends in the south of France).

5 years ago, shortly after crochet, I found a new love: macrame. I would spend hours tying knots and humming softly as I worked. I could find driftwood in the unlikeliest of places and no matter where I was, I'd carry it home, contemplating how much cord I would need, wondering if it were sturdy enough to support a plant pot or two.

I still have macrame cord left in my craft cabinet from those years ago. But today, instead of driftwood along a beach, I wander thrift store aisles for pretty bedsheets. Upon a good wash, she meets my sewing machine and becomes the summer dress she’s always dreamed of becoming. The butterflies leap when I see a King-sized green gingham in such great shape that she's almost begging me to transform her. For $7.99!? I’d be foolish to leave her!

She waits patiently for me in my craft cabinet until it is her time. She’s in good company next to 2 big containers of embroidery thread from last year. I spent hours hunched over my floral masterpiece, neck throbbing, heart full. It hangs proudly at my desk, along with my newest framed project- a punch needle Matisse-inspired leaf-like design. My punch needle is as impatient as I am to get punching again, but the broken staple gun lying on the ground near my sewing machine begs to differ. (I have a tendency to avoid Home Depot like the plague). The monks cloth --half stapled into its wood frame-- was purchased from a local Etsy shop. I have what I feel is enough to supply endless punch needle projects, and I like that feeling quite a bit.

Beside the monks cloth in my cabinet is a plethora of fabric scraps. I suppose they may feel left out, but I recently bought a little zip-up bag to keep them all together- so at least they have each other. Each one reminds me of the hours and hours I’ve spent learning the beginnings of this craft. I bought my first sewing machine last Christmas, and I have enough secondhand fabric to last me a lifeti--(I suppose that will depend on the number of worldwide pandemics that occur in the next few years).

As I sew and learn and cut (and sometimes cry), I feel enraptured by the process- by all these creative processes. Still, a part of me wishes I would slow down. If I was still crocheting, just imagine the talent I would possess now! If I was still doing macrame, perhaps I’d have a thriving, full-time creative business instead of facing the reality that is choosing a new university major every semester. If I only would have been content with one medium-even two--this would all seem simpler. I wouldn’t have to worry if my sewing machine would still be whirring away over a long weekend years from now. But a deeper part of me knows I must embrace this. This is a part of how I create. The newness, the change, the falling, the mediocrity- All of it is good.

The act of creating- that is the art- or at least the art I’m after.