A few evenings ago, my family and I visited the local playhouse to see my brother perform one of the leading roles in an adaptation of Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which is his fifth production thus far. He has quite a talent for theater acting and proved to be one of the very finest thespians of this ensemble. It never ceases to intrigue me, the way that our family is so replete with artistic gifting and creative energy. Father, mother, brother, and sisters three— every one of us is possessed with an incessant need to create in one way or another. None of us is limited to just one medium and we have many artistries in common, so we’re often collaborating and learning from each other’s creative experiences.
Writing, I believe, is the one craft that we share most in common, though we each apply it uniquely and with individual style. I find that I’m more drawn to compose verse and creative non-fiction (though I’ve experimented with many literary genres), while the younger of my two sisters will often devote endless hours to developing elaborate and fantastical narratives. The elder, currently preparing to study English at the university level as I too once did, is quite a prolific wordsmith in her own right. My mother has penned her share of poems and lyrics and children’s stories, while my brother loves to invent plots and characters which he brings to life from behind his film camera. And you’ll find that my father, as articulate an orator as he is an author, is always ready to relay some lively anecdote, like a true Irishman.
We also share a mutual penchant for musical expression. Some of my earliest memories are of my father leading family worship times on his guitar and of my mother singing, always singing. Having a keen ear for music and a knack for the piano, she would often help me pick out chords and melodies to songs I was trying to learn by ear or improvise. The elder of my sisters takes after our father (who is also a drummer) and has herself become a brilliant guitarist and percussionist, often hammering rhythms on the guitar itself or singing into it with her lovely little folk voice. She also plays a number of hand drums and exotic instruments like the Australian didgeridoo and African kalimba. While there have always been plenty of traditional instruments to be found in our house, we’ve also had a myriad of unconventional music makers pass through over the years, everything from bodhrans and panflutes to ocarinas and rain sticks, as well as any number of shakers and bells and whistles.
My own musical career began early but flourished late by common standards. I remember picking up Dad’s guitar before I was as tall as the first fret. I would place it face-up on my lap and strum over the open strings again and again, listening closely to those fifth-tuned intervals, E A D G B E. Though I never developed much interest in learning the guitar, I acquired my first violin at the age of fourteen and twelve years later I’m still early on the never-ending journey to master that notoriously challenging instrument. However, when it came to singing, I always tended to be shy, so I found time to practice when no one was around. It wasn’t until I was nearly twenty-three years old that I finally stepped behind the microphone and discovered that all my fears were unfounded—and that I could in fact sing. So I have ever since and found it to be one of my greatest loves. Nevertheless, it seems that I’ve been gravitating towards the piano ever since I could climb up on a bench. And although I was twenty-four before I began teaching myself basic theory and techniques, it wasn’t long until I was writing my own little songs. Now, two years later, I’m looking forward to producing my first album sometime in the near future.
Recently, our family has also become a clan of photographers, my sisters and I taking after our father who apprenticed in the trade for several years. I have many fond memories of those days when, as a little girl of four or five, I would accompany Dad to the studio where he worked and trained in the home of his mentor, the master photographer Tim Kelly. Most days, when my dad took his morning break, we would wander down the road hand-in-hand, crossing some train tracks before we arrived at a small bakery that served the most exquisite cinnamon rolls. Back at the studio, I would find various ways to pass the hours while my father worked away behind the cameras, doing what he loved most. Now, many years later, we will often sit for hours discussing various aspects of the craft, though our conversations generally consist of me barraging him with a never-ending supply of questions. I love that we share such a similar passion for photography and I’m grateful to have him as my very own mentor.
Over the last several years, I’ve come to enjoy the more domestic arts as well. I’m perfectly content spending all afternoon in the kitchen trying out new recipes. There’s something so calming about wearing that apron and working with my hands, whether I’m kneading bread dough or chopping up vegetables. I’m also just as likely to be found by the fire with a cup of tea, weaving skeins of lambswool into wearable pieces of art. Someday, when I have a house of my own, I’d like to take the creativity outdoors and cultivate flowers alongside an herb and vegetable garden, with berry patches and perhaps even an orchard. Of course, this would all ideally be planted on the south side of a small 1920’s craftsman-style bungalow, like one of the hundreds that I’ve sketched in my floorplan notebook over the years. And what better sort of place to continue the creative journey, where I might search for my inner painter or try my hand at the potter’s wheel, perhaps take up ballet or finally learn to play the cello. At least, that’s how I dream of things being, in this little world ever filled with the beautiful felicity that belongs to those who create, those we call artists.
