... which is all very well, but it's not specifically digging into the question of what I am good at. So:
I am good at bending sterling silver wire (and other wire sometimes) and forming shapes that seem to speak to something inside people, express something they want to say or call to something in them that they long to have recognized or remind them of something good. In a way, it's like I'm inarticulate about something very important, and the metal and glass and stone are the gestures I have with which to try to point to the thing and tell people about it. When people write stories (or make other art) that's sparked off by some of my pieces, it's a complex and wonderful happiness that's deepened by getting to do the work to understand their gestures as well. (Art with more than one person involved can be a big amazing game of catch sometimes.) I'm really good at looking at beads, stone or glass, and noticing things about them, imagining what they might say, cocking my metaphorical ears to their whispers.
Actually, that last bit is an important thing particularly because of how the stroke affected my art -- but while the stroke deepened some of what I do, it was there before. I just maybe got there faster because of the stroke.
I'm good at teaching, sometimes, too. I love the moment when someone figures something out, when they get better at something, when the mind and the hand and the eye are all in synch and suddenly they make something which surprises and delights them, and they recognize it. That, I love.
The Artists' Challenge thing, where people make art sparked off by mine, is a deep pleasure, and I'm good enough at it that they gave me a World Fantasy Award nomination in 2009, which tickled me more than I could ever say.
Also, sometimes I can put words together in ways that are effective. This has been known to happen with non-fiction as well as fiction. Essays, even. :-)
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Date: 2013-07-17 02:58 pm (UTC)I am good at bending sterling silver wire (and other wire sometimes) and forming shapes that seem to speak to something inside people, express something they want to say or call to something in them that they long to have recognized or remind them of something good. In a way, it's like I'm inarticulate about something very important, and the metal and glass and stone are the gestures I have with which to try to point to the thing and tell people about it. When people write stories (or make other art) that's sparked off by some of my pieces, it's a complex and wonderful happiness that's deepened by getting to do the work to understand their gestures as well. (Art with more than one person involved can be a big amazing game of catch sometimes.) I'm really good at looking at beads, stone or glass, and noticing things about them, imagining what they might say, cocking my metaphorical ears to their whispers.
Actually, that last bit is an important thing particularly because of how the stroke affected my art -- but while the stroke deepened some of what I do, it was there before. I just maybe got there faster because of the stroke.
I'm good at teaching, sometimes, too. I love the moment when someone figures something out, when they get better at something, when the mind and the hand and the eye are all in synch and suddenly they make something which surprises and delights them, and they recognize it. That, I love.
The Artists' Challenge thing, where people make art sparked off by mine, is a deep pleasure, and I'm good enough at it that they gave me a World Fantasy Award nomination in 2009, which tickled me more than I could ever say.
Also, sometimes I can put words together in ways that are effective. This has been known to happen with non-fiction as well as fiction. Essays, even. :-)