The blacksheep artist

Oft times I have acknowledged that I am a blacksheep in the Lowman clan. This is most evident when it comes to the arts and the creative force behind it. Let me take you through the many ways that I have tried, semi-tried, and failed at being artsy.

First off, when it comes to food, I take full responsibility for my failures. I am not fond of cooking, baking, or even frosting cookies and cupcakes. Despite my lack of interest, there should be some things that I can do right, right? No comment. (As I wrote this, I burned my microwaveable turkey pot pie.)

I could not eat the bottom and sides because it was burned.

When it comes to the written word, I am... improving. Writing stories, poems, or lyrics always resulted in a headache when I was younger. I detested writing exercises as a kid, which probably contributed to the headache that formed. In contrast, my younger brother was quite the storyteller in grade school. His teacher published his story and the legend of his main character, Stetson, followed him through to middle school. My sister and older brother were also blessed by Apollo. Their poetry is deep, emotionally raw, powerful to read and grasp. It still blows me away when I return to their writings, which came so effortlessly. My grand piece of work? In 1998, following the loss of the University of Arizona Wildcats to the University of Utah in the NCAA basketball tournament, I penned a poem that rhymed. It was my first and only poem that rhymed and it came as a result of a mini-depression for my cats defeat. (Don't judge the impetus of a person's sadness... Granted mine was silly in the grand scheme of life, so go ahead and shake your head.)


One would think that my one artistic claim is through music because I can play the piano and classical guitar, but you would be mistaken. I can read music flawlessly because that is a technical process. When it comes to improvising, I struggle. Again this is not true for my siblings, such as my sister who earned herself an A+ in her high school independent music course because she "played from the heart" (translation: she didn't practice a classical piece of music, so she winged it the day of her recital). My sister oozes with creative thinking and skill. A year ago, I wanted to make a pillow dress for my niece Melodie. I went to a service project in Minneapolis in which the basic steps were demonstrated. All that is required is a pillow, scissors, ribbon, and a sewing machine. Simple enough, right? No. Camille had everything and she was eager to learn. I started the dress and got so far as to cut the fabric. I kid you not, that was my contribution and dismal teaching performance. Basically, we learned that my sewing skills are perfect for dressing a house elf.

Dobby, a free house elf.
Google Image

My sister, on the other hand, finished off the dress for Melodie without further instruction from me. 

I believe my expression when she sent the picture was something along the lines of "Are those stinking ruffles?!"

When it comes to creativity for the visual arts, the gods simply overlooked my cradle and blessed my siblings abundantly. My older brother, in particular, was favored by the muses and Michelangelo. He is in a league all unto himself. Art teachers of the Page Unified School District knew this and they welcomed his masterful pieces. I was always in awe of his work. In high school, for my art elective, I decided to take a ceramics class. The year prior I took a photography class and the focus of my project was a pair of running shoes. That is how bad I was at the whole creativity thing. Anyway, in ceramics class, we learned how to make our clay, throw it on the wheel, mold it, fire up the kiln, cook, and stain our ceramic art work. I was, surprisingly, mediocre. In fact, the only piece of art work (made by me) that my parents display in their home to this day, is a relic from that ceramics class. It would be fair to say that if I had to honor the Greek gods with my best art work, this miraculous clay head would be it.

He doesn't even have a name. I call it "clay head". He is a miracle because he should have exploded in the kiln since I did not hollow his head out. I don't know why I chose a blue hat with yellow trimming. Methinks it was probably the closest color within my reach. I honestly don't know why my dad insists on keeping it. This "clay head" will continue to be a mystery to me, perhaps that is why it is art?

Despite my inability to create something worth eating, hearing, reading, or seeing, I compensate with my enthusiasm as a receiver of the arts. I love literature, whether it be poetry, plays, or novels. I love music of all sorts. I am in awe of the arts--painting, drawing, sculpting, photography, animation, etc. Fortunately for me, I grew to appreciate the beauty of these things because of the talents of my family, specifically those of my siblings. I think my persistence and drive to learn was a result of proving that I could perform just as well as they did. Of course that did not happen because their abilities were unrivaled. In time, I found my strength (in math, ha ha), but the determination to put my best foot forward began with those early attempts to be an artist. 



One last example of the difference in talent between myself and my brother.

My attempt to draw Greg Kinnear in August of this year. Ha ha ha ha...

August of last year, my brother uploaded this to his Facebook page. How can we be related? He is art and I am science. As my younger brother so eloquently puts it, "He is street and I am books." Ha ha. If you are interested in more art work, specifically dermal illustrations, done by my brother check out his instagram (lowman3zero) pics.