This has been a week of downtime. Don and I have both had the flu, and we took off studio time. I’ve progressed on 3 octopus quilts, taking them from the pin-up into sewn-down reality. But those two states don’t look very different. So I don’t have much show and tell this week.

Years ago, a mentor of mine told me that when you are young, you pick up everything like you’re in a candy shop. What defines us in the end is not what we take up, but what we put down.

I have a rotating hobby selection. I tat. I crochet. I play ukulele. I garden. I tweak recipes. I’m rarely on one thing or another for very long. I do cycle back to hobbies when I need something fresh.

All of these things are artistic. They’re fun. They fill up time. None of them is art.

I believe in art. I believe everyone is an artist. I believe it to be inherent to being human. Art is how we make sense out of our experiences. It reaches way past media. We work it out in music, in painting, in sculpture, in fiber, or in writing. We retell our stories. Within the retelling, we craft our world into something we can live with. We recraft ourselves. If one path closes, another opens to carry this on. I balance between writing and my art. In purpose, they are essentially the same.

Hobbies are about filling time. We entertain ourselves, we learn, we grow. They are a pleasure if we’ve chosen well. Distraction at worst. I am never all that good at my hobbies. I never engage enough to become good at them. But they bring me joy, entertain me, and get me through bad spots. I think everyone should have a bevy of hobbies as a coping mechanism. I keep telling Don, yarn is cheaper than therapy. Hobbies may not be necessary. But they do spread oil on the gears.

Art isn’t optional. It’s a day-to-day struggle to understand what’s going on.

I cant say I understand my art. I sometimes do in time. I know an image gets in my head and I have to work with it. Once I have, something in me settles. I’ve changed myself by engaging with the image.

But before that, I crammed in all kinds of art experiences. I did batik, clay sculpture. I sewed everything I wore except my shoes and my bras. I made stained glass. At some point, Mary Annis gave me a quilt she rescued from our trash can. I’ve quilted ever since.

That was it. What defined me after that was what I put down. Nothing mattered like quilting.

When did my quilting turn into my art? Like most things, it’s hard to see the source. I really don’t know.

At some point, I started taking my quilt to my therapy appointments.I think that probably defines it.

What do the octopuses mean? I think I’m talking about the ability to multitask, think in different ways, and move like smoke and ocum, all of which I desperately wish I could do.

Is it my work? Is it my vocation?

Everything eventually turns into work. There’s the day you have to bind something. The day 6 small quilts are due, and none of them finished. It may be fun. It may not. But you need to get it done.

Also, if you’re going to live off your art, it inevitably becomes work. There’s a lot of perspiration and much less inspiration. You are producing a product. Often, that’s smaller, less exciting pieces. They are worthy. They pay for bread and butter. It’s what you love, but it also has to get done.

Why should people buy art? Because it changes the buyer, too. It makes you laugh, or hope, or cry, or giggle. It opens your heart and your mind. It also supports artists, so they can continue to create the things that change them, change you, and change the world.

So the lines aren’t that strictly drawn. My hobbies are my entertainment. My art, I do for my soul. I love it all, but at some point, you just need to get things done. Work may be a four letter word. But it’s not the worst of them.

So don’t tell me I have a nice hobby. Welcome to my art.