Making A Thing

It was a silvery-rainy Sunday in a country house in Brittany. We were finishing tea, and talking about art and creativity, and I was bemoaning the fact that I don't know how to do anything. I was saying how much I'd love to step away from words and try to paint, for example. Two years earlier, a friend had given me a thick inviting tablet of watercolor paper and a little set of paints, but they sit unused to this day. On more than one occasion, I took up knitting, only to leave behind some scraggly unfinished piece of work that speaks of failure and lethargy. I've made a few lopsided clay pots in my time, and folded hundreds of paper cranes. I shrugged. There wasn't much else to report.

My daughter's father-in-law, Peter, thought this defeatist attitude had gone on too long. He had a sort of wood shop and work area in the garage, and he insisted that I come in and "make" something right then and there. I protested but he insisted, and I figured I might as well humor him and give it a try. I donned a paper haz-mat suit and mask, and he put a jig-saw in my hand, and asked me what I wanted to create.

Um...I had no idea. Maybe a shape? A pretty curve of wood? Well, we sawed and sandpapered and made a huge amount of noise and there was dust everywhere and occasionally I leapt back in terror when the machinery seemed to have a life of its own. Eventually I had a vaguely S-shaped bit of wood, which I had no use for at all and didn't want to add to my luggage, so I proclaimed it an art piece and presented it to Peter.I can see that woodworking won't be my hobby.  The watercolors beckon, filled with quiet promise, so we shall see. But there is a curved piece of wood on the step of an old house in Brittany now, clumsily crafted by me, and it's not much more than nothing at all, but it's definitely a thing, and it's there.