Oddballs, Eccentrics, and Me....

I’ve been going to art show openings for the past few years. While these aren’t events I would necessarily participate in of my own accord, being married to an artist, I attend by way of support. I’m glad for the impetus to do something I might not otherwise think about doing although when I go, I have nothing to contribute. While the artists stand in clumps and discuss techniques and tools and other artists they admire, I play my part like a politician’s wife; smiling sweetly and gazing adoringly. Truthfully, I’m just an accessory. In that environment, though, I don’t mind. It is fun to just observe.

I’ve found that artists are amazingly supportive of one another. Their conversations are convivial and affirming. They encourage one another as they discuss the challenges of identifying themselves as artists rather than hobbyist and pushing through creative blocks. Not only do I enjoy viewing the art, I enjoy the community among the artists.

Really, for me, art has always just been a spectator sport. I have no talent for the visual arts whatsoever. None. I can’t even play Pictionary. And in spite of his immense artistic ability, neither can Steve. You don’t want to invite us over for game night if that is the activity of choice. We are a disaster. Steve can’t play because his drawings end up needing a bit of shading here, a bit of perspective there. By the time he produces whatever it is he is supposed to be drawing, the time has run out and people have gone to get more snacks. A few have even decided to go to bed.

I, on the other hand, cannot play Pictionary because I have absolutely no ability to draw. My playing partners are often looking at the paper, quizzically asking, “What IS that?” Plus there is the whole over excitement issue. The one where after a disastrous attempt at drawing I fling the pencil across the room and start flailing around wildly, turning the moment into a solo game of Charades while my bewildered partners wonder what in the hell I’m doing. It is hopeless. And humbling.

Because I’m not an artist, I would have imagined, prior to my adjunct role in that community, that artists fit the stereotype of oddballs, eccentrics, and moody, temperamental creators with just the slightest need for anger management courses.

Hollywood has trained me well.

Turns out, artists are just regular people. Of course there is the occasional oddball and eccentric but go to any grouping of lawyers, chefs, professors, or construction workers and you’re sure to find oddballs and eccentrics. Because oddballs and eccentrics are everywhere.

Delightfully so.

I’ve discovered, while attending various art functions, that artists are no more quirky and strange than any other group of people. Some are people who’ve chosen art. Others are people whom art has chosen. Either way, they are letting their souls speak through their work and living one day at a time just like everyone else.

Of course, it isn’t just artists whom I’ve categorized incorrectly. I’ve done the same to lots of groups because that’s what our culture teaches. We sort and define and assume. We judge. Often unkindly. Usually incorrectly. Sometimes we judge according to profession. Sometimes according to belief systems. Sometimes according to characteristics over which there is no control, such as race or sexual orientation.

Regardless, if we pay attention, we find out that people don’t fit into our expected notions about them. When we discover that the feminist isn’t a man-hater and the conservative isn’t narrow-minded, we owe it to them to listen carefully and embrace the person behind the ideology. Or the individual immersed in the profession. Or the soul embedded in the creative pursuit. Or simply, the human whom God created.

Because difference is important, individuality is necessary, and labels are incorrect. Because everyone deserves to be known and respected.

And because our humanity is what binds us together.