A Little Musing on Creativity (& Purpose)

House on the Aven River

Original: 

Twelve years ago I fell in love with the whole of Brittany, France, and especially with the town of Pont Aven, and this sweet house that sits on the Aven River that runs through part of the town. I took so many photos in that town, most all somewhere along the river's edge where my youngest daughter and I walked one long afternoon, the melody of water, a gorgeous sky, and spring flowers bursting out everywhere. Though underexposed and not very exciting, this is one of my favorite images from that day. Like so many other photos that I love, it has sat in my files, waiting for me to have the right tools and know-how to bring its potential into being. 

There are few things that I love more than taking photos. I can lose myself for long periods of time behind the camera. I know I am not unusual in that. Everything that is not the moment vanishes, thoughts, worries, evaporate, and it's just me, my camera, and the subject. What I am not, when photographing, is technical, or patient. I don't knowingly follow certain rules. The very idea of an external light meter or a tripod, trying to deflect or reflect light is all intimidating and feels like way too much trouble. I am in photography what they call a "pantser" in the writing world, as in not necessarily into outlining and plotting, but just writing (shooting) by the seat of my pants. At one point I was gifted the Shutter Sisters' book, Expressive Photography, and their unique "shoot from the heart" philosophy became my mainstay, giving credibility to what I was already doing, and enabling me to embrace my particular approach even more. 

Whenever I am taking pictures, I am trying to capture something that I love. It's as simple as that, I realize suddenly. Grasping not only the image of something I adore that I can keep forever, but the moment, too. Like the trip with my daughter. Like the beauty and wonder of Brittany. Like this sweet house, which I can't even say why I loved so much, but I did; there it was at the end of the footpath by where the river narrowed into a small canal, with its stained walls, plants growing from it in the oddest places, the red chimney pipe topper, terra cotta roof tiles, all backing right up to the river. Without thought, I simply raised my little digital camera and began to click away. 

The photos from that trip captured something else. They captured those months when life was still normal, before my marriage ended and I left my home and garden, my entire life as I knew it. They are a poignant view, and symbolic. There I was traveling alone to France to visit my daughter, and traveling alone at times both in France and farther, while she was in school, a big and risky adventure for me; like a dress rehearsal, I see now, for the truly big adventure that waited for me back at home. Though odyssey was much more like it. Odyssey: a long series of wanderings or adventures, especially when filled with notable experiences, hardships, etc. 

A year and a half ago I was not in a good place at all, struggling to find a reason to even get up in the mornings when I came across a blog post by a woman who had accidentally become an entrepreneur later in life. I've written about it here before, how she could not wait to spring from bed each morning, so curious about what it was that might want to be created that day. Her story touched me profoundly, illuminating in a way that couldn't be denied the state of my own life then; my grief at its barrenness, its listlessness and lethargy; eight months into my oldest daughter's chronic illness, my own stresses caring for her, worrying for her, the unknown, the suffering; past traumas showing up. That blog post found the longing in me for that experience, for an excitement about something, anything.

The woman is Sharon Santoni, and out of nowhere, so unexpectedly in her later life, she created her very successful business, My French Country Home. I was not and am not the least bit interested in creating a business, but I did want to create a life, even in the midst of the difficulties, I hungered for more, and what had transpired in her life inspired the hell out of me. I made a commitment to start writing again on the regular, and I dusted off my (new) camera, re-acquainted myself with Photoshop and I was off and running. What a remarkable time it has been. I've learned so much, discovered so much, grown so much as an artist, as a voice; including learning to call what I do art, and more, to call myself an artist, to own myself as a writer, and maybe, most wonderfully of all, have connected in a very meaningful way with others along the way. Most days I spend hours digitally post processing my images, adding layers and textures and painterly effects; adding and subtracting. What a joy. 

And yet~

Here I sit, the new year dawning, after all we have experienced this year, personally, collectively, I am thirsting for more~

I can almost glimpse it, but not quite; it's out there yet remains elusive, like a shadow of a shadow, a delicate, ethereal impression~

Somehow, I am seeing, right now, one keystroke at a time, that it all has to do with purpose; something that I never thought much about when I was raising my family and tending our home, working part time, and yet something that has mystified and eluded me ever since~

Purpose: the reason for which something exists~

Oh my. 

It appears I have merely written the prelude here.