December, or how it comes to be

 The last holiday card has gone out, and now, facing a worktable without a brush or paper or glue in my hand, I'm feeling a little at odds.

That task, which this year began in early November and filled my mornings until the whole list of 108 family and friends was satisfied, gave me not only purpose but an illuminating beginning to each day.  Today I looked desperately through my address books for people I might have forgotten, but alas there's only one and he's moved without a forwarding address.

I could, of course, just continue to make more cards, for whatever occasions come up in the future, but I discovered something this year:  art seems more inspired if I have someone intended to receive it.  

And these days, the work served a more essential purpose...in relative isolation from what in other times would be a pretty busy set of celebratory months, art was a connector between me and the others I would have ordinarily enjoyed celebrating with.  

Over the summer months, what I called small art kept me busy, and some of those, with or without potential receivers, pleased me. (There is always my discard pile for the others, though historically,  someone happening upon it may have snatched up one or two and carried them home...)  I could go back to that.  There is a year full of birthdays to greet, as well, so I suppose I could begin a 2021 list and follow it out a few pieces at a time.  Birthdays are numerous in certain months...May, September, for example...and not many in others, like November and December (emptied by deaths and geographical desertions, both of them).  But there is no month with none, thankfully, and that keeps me going.

This year, though a few of those holidayers were watercolored, I found the most pleasure in collage.  Just as I was beginning in earnest, I discovered a new local source for handmade paper, a tiny gift shop opened this year in an old railroad station by some people who also own one of my favorite clothing stores nearby.  I  don't make paper myself (sorry, all you talented papermakers), the process being not to my aesthetic tolerance.  But I admire those whose work I can unroll, tear and cut, put together like a puzzle, often the pieces suggesting their own places on the stock.

Sometimes there are ornaments (the bookmakers have a word for it, but I can't remember now what it is) to be added, but mostly the paper seemed not to want accessorizing, though they would accept a stab of pencil or pen now and then.  (My white, gold and silver pens need replacing by now.)

The thing about paper is that no matter how precious (and costly) the sheet, little of it goes to waste, at least around here.   Under my worktable is a basket of large scraps torn from the rolls, and I scrounge around in it until what I want can't be found. 

 On the work surface itself are the very small scraps, which you would think were destined for the waste bin, but they come in too handy for that.  In fact, they have the most creative spirit of any size...there is always a tiny shape that fits perfectly to make a leaf or to fill in a gap of color or to edge a mountain or to become a sliver of lake.

Just like a jigsaw puzzle, as the shapes fit themselves together, so does the vision.  It doesn't take but an initial piece or two to realize the person it's meant for; the title, too,  The tools at hand, pretty much, do their own work, silent and unappreciated except by me.

The way all those papers worked, especially this year, also broadened my images...they didn't necessarily need to be stock holiday pictures, or even winter ones, for that matter.  They just made themselves whatever they wanted to be.

Often people will send me thanks for what they receive, and I appreciate that, but they needn't...the pleasure of the work is all mine, and I'm grateful to have someone to pass it along to.

I hope each of you has some holiday pleasure you can count on to lift your spirits these days.  

I'd love to know what it is.