Walk in the Woods

Nik Curfman 3/1/21 Nik Curfman 3/1/21

Abstract: I Know No Lies

And if I said God is in love with each and every person on this planet, all that ever were, are, and will be, best to tie me to a stake for my fabrications. Right?

If I said God is real, it could be a lie. Real is a human construct limited to time and space, scientifically testable senses, and our limited ability to understand anything.

If I said God is Love, it might be a damn lie. Love is a what? A feeling? A commitment? A duty? A hormone induced attraction? Or is it a tradition we call loyalty?

If I said God is the Creator, you’d call me a liar still. Creator of lies perhaps. Of political extremists, conspiracy theorist, and religious lunatics. Of useless traditions.

If I said God is our common and Holy Father, the one who binds the human family together, throw me in prison for my crime. How does such a Holy Father tolerate violence and injustice? No good father would permit such injury and strife.

And if I said God is in love with each and every person on this planet, all that ever were, are, and will be, best to tie me to a stake for my fabrications. Right?

How could God love the racist, communist, sex traffickers, televangelists, porn stars, drug dealers, Donald Trump, mass murders, queers, drag queens, rapist, shitty husbands, cheating wives, homosexuals, transvestite refugees, white people, brown people, liars, thieves, abusers, child punchers, capitalists, pimps, Nazis, atheist, devil-worshippers, Catholics, muslims, Canadians, and rodeo clowns?

Call me what you will. I know no lies.

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Nik Curfman 2/10/21 Nik Curfman 2/10/21

Abstract: My Audience Of One

Then He takes my scribbles and sticks,

Using one of the many magnets on the big ass fridge next to the Throne,

And places my childish creation where everyone will see.

He’s my audience of One.

(There’s a sad time,

Between being an innocent boy and a guilty man,

When a young soul is crushed from who it is,

Into the mold of what it should be.

When scribbles on paper are no longer a source of joy,

When the lines are critiqued,

And the shading is judged.

The room of joy, the art room, becomes a lab.

Imagination replaced by standard production.

Each product held against the rest.

Never of its own.)

The judges are never louder than when I’m alone.

Years churn,

Attempts are made.

New tubes of paint lay unused,

And rasps turn to rust.

A thousand inspirations forever unseen, forever vanished into eternity.

I feel too unworthy to try, and condemned in my waste of what could be.

Does a cave of abandonment exist,

Free of the court and galley,

The lab and the showroom floor?

Where it’s just me?

Yes.

It’s called the Throne Room.

It’s bright and lined with white columns.

At the far end is where He is.

And big ass refrigerator.

That big ass refrigerator next to the seat where He sits,

It’s covered with magnets.

And He’s waiting while I work.

He’s waiting to smile and pat me on the head.

He’s waiting to say “well done son, I know where this is going.”

Then He takes my scribbles and sticks,

Using one of the many magnets on the big ass fridge next to where He sits,

And places my childish creation where everyone will see.

He’s my audience of One.

The only one that matters to me.

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Nik Curfman 2/7/21 Nik Curfman 2/7/21

Journal: #199 Shouldn’t I Be Creative Too?

My Father in Heaven is the GOAT artist/creator. His breath is in my lungs. When I walk outside, I see nothing but glory and power. Shouldn’t I be creative too?

Friday night I wrote a much longer blog post about my life as an artist. It included my history, struggle, and current engagement/creative process. Then, in an instant, it was gone. (Pro-tip: Save your writing.) So now, here’s a condensed version.

Last week, on one of my walks, I thought about the differences in 2-D creative process to 3-D creative process. They are wildly different, yet I seem intent on ignoring one for the sake of the other. Somewhere in my life I picked up the idea I need to be able to draw before going on to any other kind of work. I know it’s silly, but I need to expose the lie for it’s silliness.

Whenever I try to draw or paint I can hear a thousand judgements after each stroke and line. Your perspective is all wrong. That’s not what an ear looks like. No one will like this. Who are you drawing for?

I do pat myself on the back for pushing through it lately. I like to sketch in my journal (which no one will ever read and thusly the sketches are for me.) So what if my paintings are a pile of dook? I’m never going to get any better fearing it or talking about it. But, that’s not the rub. The real rub is why don’t I make more three-dimensional works of art? It’s my first love.

Whenever I bend wire or construct a random sculpture, I experience none of the judgements I feel when I draw or paint. I love what I make. The other day, when I began work on a face, I felt nothing but joy when I stopped for the day. I couldn’t take my eyes away from what I made.

Last summer, when I decided to begin pursuing my artistic heart, I did so by painting and drawing. It was a good place to start because it’s cheap, easy, and doesn’t require a lot of space. It was also a concession. I settled for painting and drawing. I know why too. I settled for drawing and painting because I’d rather “fail” at those than sculpture.

More recently I’ve become aware of another, more sinister fear: sculpting isn’t “good enough” for the Kingdom. To be a proper Christian means I’ve got to talk about Jesus with every waking breath. The only acceptable art in the Christian world is evangelical art. Right? Smith Wigglesworth’s only book was the Bible. So I too must be that uncompromising, even within myself. Right?

Wrong. Smith Wigglesworth- though a hero of mine- sounded like an uncompromising ass. My Father in Heaven is the GOAT artist/creator. His breath is in my lungs. When I walk outside, I see nothing but glory and power. Shouldn’t I be creative too?

I’ll I know is I feel joy, hope, love, and peace when I sculpt. If we are to believe what Paul said to the Galatians isn’t what I just described the fruit of the Spirit? My question is, of course, rhetorical. When I sculpt I am doing what I see my Father doing. It’s no different than a young boy shaving his hairless face because that’s what dad does every morning.

As all these thoughts and fears, in addition to few others swirled in my mind last week, a new idea took root. What if my life, the one the Lord made for me, doesn’t look like anyone else’s? What if I don’t fit any mold? It’s a scary and tantalizing thought. The lack of a model is the scary bit. How do I know if I’m doing “it” right?

The only answer, the only way I’ll know if I’m doing “it” right, is to stick with Jesus. I’ve got to walk by faith and trust Him in all things. When my art isn’t Christian enough, I trust Him. When I create a space for people to be messy and it looks odd to a Church looking for “holiness”, I will trust Him. When I date again or buy land or invest in a new security, I will lay my life in His hands.

I can do this. I was born to do so.