Creativity within Constraints: Arm & Bone

February 4, 2023 Liz Craig

In the fall of 2016, I did an endo. In mountain biking terms, an endo is when you fly over your handlebars and most likely land on a body part other than your feet. It’s not good. For me, it was my right arm. As I headed down a steep hill at Boulder Valley Ranch, I hit the brakes and before I knew it, I landed on the ground–hard. At the ER they told me my right arm was broken and gave me some painkillers and the phone number of an orthopedist. “If you keep your arm still enough, you could avoid surgery,” I was told. For six weeks I did just that—kept my arm as still as possible, lugging it around by my side in a sling. At bedtime, Kevin would prop me up on strategically placed pillows so my arm would be supported and stay in place as I slept. I’d get up in the morning, pull on a tank top and shorts with my left hand (did I mention I’m a righty?) and make myself a cup of golden milk in hopes the magical anti-inflammatory powers of turmeric would help me heal.

After a few weeks, I was pretty sick of the limitations of my situation and needed to do something productive, so I made art—with serious built-in constraints. What art could I make with one arm? A collage. I had the raw materials—paper, glue, and an unwanted Room & Board catalog. My physical limitations forced me to keep it simple and made it impossible to get fussy. I laughed upon finishing it–with its bone-colored palette and fractured paper edges.

A headline a day

June 10, 2020 Liz Craig

As a way to document the times and make art, I’ve decided to select a newspaper headline and combine it with a photo (most likely featuring Charlie). Each one will include the date the headline appeared in the paper.

Upside down

May 27, 2020 Liz Craig

When I’ve been wrestling with a design project and can’t seem to crack it, I’ll remind myself to turn it upside down. A change of perspective helps me see how formal elements relate to one another differently. Instead of seeing what is recognizable (a word, a paragraph of text, a photograph), I see abstract shapes, space and contrast. I do puzzles this way sometimes, too, since puzzle pieces are tiny canvases of abstraction. These days the world feels upside down. I don’t know yet what I see from this new vantage point.

Shades of gray

May 13, 2020 Liz Craig

I was Zooming with college girlfriends the other night and the topic of gray hair came up. I must admit I was surprised by the variety of statements. I’d be taken so much more seriously if I had gray hair. I wonder if I have the guts to stop dyeing it. I’m tired of the maintenance. Because certain businesses like salons and barbers are closed during the pandemic, hair maintenance has become a hot topic. Some people are cutting their own or, for better or for worse, having a loved one do it. Many who regularly get their hair dyed aren’t able to do so and are facing life without the upkeep. I’ve even seen a meme of the Mona Lisa with gray roots. As someone who has been dyeing mine for a few years, I’ve found it exposing and freeing.

As women we internalize messages about what beauty is and how we are supposed to look from day one. I would love for this moment, when life has forced us to slow down and confront what is right in front of us, to be an opportunity to question what is really important. When businesses open up again and we have the option of resuming our old habits, which ones do we keep? Which ones do we leave behind? Hey ladies—let’s make a pact that aging naturally and gracefully is beautiful. Who’s with me?

Tomatillo skeletons—you have to plant two

April 19, 2020 Liz Craig

Last year we planted a tomatillo for the first time. A couple of months after planting them I found out from Michael on the bus that tomatillos are cross-pollinators—you need to plant at least two in order for them to bear fruit. No fruit for us but I did discover these intricate empty husks in the garden today, 11 months and 3 seasons later.

Shelter-in-place

April 19, 2020 Liz Craig

Two years ago my love, Kevin, built me a shed—for art, rest, and the occasional 2-hour long phone conversation with a girlfriend. I didn’t use it enough, despite the opportunity. Then in March 2020, the Coronavirus swept in and took over. The shed has since become my home office. Now I spend 5 days a week in it, working remotely full-time for a national lab. At around 8:00 a.m. I walk the 20 feet she sits from our house to turn on the space heater. I return to the house to make a cup of tea and eat breakfast. Thirty minutes later I walk back to the shed with my laptop in hand and begin my work day.
Having such a pared down existence over these past few weeks has forced me to slow down and notice things. I hear my neighbors play with their kids. I witness the extreme nature of spring in Colorado where one day I’m planting irises in 70 degrees and the next trudging through a foot of snow. I don’t like the constraints of sheltering-in-place but I do like how it has opened up space to notice what’s close by.

That's what she shed