Girl illustration in my journal.

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My recent trip to Cuba was fascinating and life-altering for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that I kept a journal of my experiences that was perhaps the most detailed and creative journal I have ever filled on a trip.  As I write this I have a sudden, fierce urge to dig into our storage space to unearth the journals I kept on my post-college backpacking escapades through Europe, but something tells me that they won’t inspire the same kind of sparkle that as the journal I have labeled "SMALL * HAVANA".  I am beginning to fill a bookshelf with my black hardcover journals and finally labeled the spines so I did not continue wasting time trying to figure out which book had which page I was looking for.  The "SMALL" means what it is – the 5.5 x 8.5 journals I use on trips versus the 8 x 10 journals I use day to day in my studio.

Journaling for me has evolved throughout my life.  I started keeping a journal in college, and I barely recognize myself in the floral fabric covered, lined journals with neat, high-school-teacher-cursive handwriting.  I have filled a number of journals since then – travel journals, Morning Pages, and mundane journals.  For the longest time they were only filled with words; oddly enough it wasn’t until after my divorce that I began incorporating more illustrations, doodles and drawings in a particular leather-bound book with lush, extravagent paper that became a testament to the worst heartache of my life.   

In the midst of trying to recover from this loss and make my way in the world on my own, something in me clicked and out of nowhere my journals exploded overnight.  For whatever reason, I suddenly decided that my journals were going to be my salvation, and my first basic, black, hardbound book with plain white pages is a record of my journey into hell and then through it to the beauty beyond.  That journal, which I began December 4, 2002, was a turning point in my work as an artist, a writer and a woman.  It was through this journaling that my love of collage and mixed media began to form, and I re-learned the exquisite joy in getting very, very messy.

Ever since I began this kind of journaling, my studio has become increasingly unkempt.  Tidy is rarely the word in this room.  At the moment, my desk is filled with the following items:

Printer
Laptop
Desklamp
Small Speakers (2)
Candle
Telephone
Desk organizer filled with pens and pictures
Address book
Ceramic disk that says "GLOW"
Eraser
Purple beaded coaster with empty glass
Pens
Stack of notecards
Post-it notes
Glue stick
Metal ruler
Sharpie marker
Packing tape
Priority mail labels
Rubber stamp alphabet & stamp pad
Two letter ready for the mail
Linoleum print blocks and carving tools
Stickers
Envelopes
Stamps
Canadian postage labels
A book of drawings by Carrie Chau
A wooden tray with three striped ceramic eggs

I have piles on my floor, my shelves and on my painting table – there are jars of paint brushes, a sewing machine, tubes of paints, four wood panels, a tabletop easel and a stack of rags.  In other words – there is CRAP EVERYWHERE.  A few years ago this would have made me freak out; now I just look around and smile.

I take this newly acquired ability to work amongst the clutter as a good sign.  My work is becoming increasingly looser, and I feel a deeper relaxation as I paint, draw, write and collage.  I am having to un-learn a decade of skills that served me very well running a very numbers-based greeting card business, where any artwork I created had to be a very specific size and format for a very specific occasion.  Those skills certainly continue to come in handy, but for now I’m having fun embracing the messy artist in me.  For now I’m letting it be OK that I have to step over tubs filled with paints and my paper cutter in order to reach the book I need.  For now I’m wallowing in the creative chaos.