Embrace the Mess

Lately, I feeling invited to stay present to the mess. Everywhere I look of late, I’ve seen chaos and mess whether it’s my studio, my life, my community or the world. My ego wants to control it, to sweep the disorder and dysfunction out of sight or force it into a manageable size and shape, but forcing order on chaos isn’t possible—or even desirable—much of the time. Sometimes good advice or a “fix it” mentality stunts growth whether it’s a painting that’s underway, a friend that is struggling, or a political process. Forcing my idea of order upon chaos can destroy the life that is present within the mess. I’ve been pondering this thought from Anne Lammott’s book, “Bird by Bird”:

Clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground—you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it’s going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move.

I would suggest that this is true of painting too. It’s important to discern the difference between creating and cleaning up. Following what feels alive, rather than jumping too quickly to editing the work. I am letting myself leave portions of the painting in a rough and messy state, knowing that I can and will return to them later. It takes confidence and trust to let it all hang out. Besides, it’s a lot more fun to start with chaos and then work toward a semblance of order and simplicity. Last week, I started this plant painting on top of an unrelated study. The unplanned colors of the painting underneath gave it a little electricity. Setting the timer for 30 minutes and limiting the painting session to 30 minutes kept me from tidying up the painting. The unfinished, rough energy of this painting feels sexy and alive:

First draft of the painting on top of another painting.

Life isn’t meant to be clean and pretty all the time, I remind myself as I sort rotten, reeking potatoes into the compost bin at the local food bank. And I’m reminded of another quote from Wendell Berry’s Essay “The Work of Local Culture” on the “gross” process of making life-sustaining soil:

The old bucket has hung there through many autumns, and the leaves have fallen around it and some have fallen into it. Rain and snow have fallen into it, and the fallen leaves have held the moisture and so have rotted. Nuts have fallen into it, or been carried into it by squirrels; mice and squirrels have eaten the meat of the nuts and left the shells; they and other animals have left their droppings; insects have flown into the bucket and died and decayed; birds have scratched in it and left their droppings and perhaps a feather or two. This slow work of growth and death, gravity and decay, which is the chief work of the world, has by now produced in the bottom of the bucket several inches of black humus. I look into that bucket with fascination because I am a farmer of sorts and an artist of sorts, and I recognize there an artistry and a farming far superior to mine, or to that of any human.

Second draft of a work in progress painting.