Why my trash is my treasure
By Maeve Merrick (Maeve.Merrick)
Sometimes, I wonder which came first: my passions or my personality. As a quiet, shy kid growing up in a loud, outgoing, and intensely artistic family, it was inevitable that I would fall into some sort of creative space. So, I began my search far and wide for an artistic spark to ignite my soul and give me “a purpose” like the rest of my family. I'd soon discover that no endeavor made me feel whole in and of itself. Rather, they were fragmented and oftentimes confused scraps of the artistic identity I would eventually curate.
First, I attempted piano lessons, like many others do, but eventually quit for lack of passion or time, or maybe just commitment issues. This pattern would repeat itself as I tried out different creative niches; I took bass lessons for three months, took jazz, tap, ballet, and modern classes, played the trombone for a year, and participated in numerous acting classes and summer camps. And while I liked these activities, I did not love them. I was not consumed by them; therefore, they were not enough. I continued some of them for many years - acting particularly stuck with me, as I continued to participate in productions until just a few months ago - but always eventually quit. Hearing the way my father talked about photography, my brother in acting, and my mother in ballet made me want to find that love and inspiration of creation for myself, so I continued my search.
While surviving high school, I stumbled my way into the spring of 2020, stuck in my house with no way to attend classes, use a borrowed instrument, or follow along with a dance instructor. So, with an absence of other options, I turned to the visual arts, which is a pretentious way to say I was painting album covers and other simple images with old supplies from Micheals. As I continued attempting different mediums and styles, ranging from pastels to acrylics and realism to abstract art, I found myself more grounded than before. Unfortunately for me, the final product would always be a little…wonky. I could never make the brush strokes even or the features centered. This lack of perfection was a familiar feeling for me. Perhaps this was the feeling that eventually stopped me from continuing my acting, music, and dancing: not a lack of love but a frustration with mediocrity. Or maybe it was a combination of both.
Whatever the reason, eventually, my passion was waning, and the seemingly inevitable end of this endeavor was starting to creep up on me. The pattern was edging on repetition until I found my unexpected salvation: collaging. The relaxing process of cutting and pasting, the wonderfully overwhelming options of placement, the diverse range of materials, the incorporation of quotes from my well-loved books, the use of otherwise unused scraps of memory – collaging fit into my heart and hobbies like a hand in a worn winter glove. No longer did my child-like, messy (maybe even “serial killer,” as my brother lovingly describes it) handwriting hold me back. Now, I had a sea of stamps and ink before me, waiting to be neatly printed on my mish-mash of memories. Or even better, on some pieces, I could allow my chicken scrawl to run wild and headless, leaning into chaotic creation. I quickly bought a collage journal and dove headfirst into my new obsession, beginning my creation of my true artistic identity.
This journal quickly became a great love of mine, taking a permanent place on my desk and traveling with me to Texas, Virgina, and New York. And, with the risk of sounding a bit egotistical, looking through my collages is one of my absolute favorite activities. As I flip through my artwork in my journal or Marmalade or The Love Zine, I take pride in how truly beautiful my collages look. However, more important than creating an acceptable final product, I give thanks for what the collaging process has given me. It hasn't given me an undeniable passion and will never be my reason for existing like the arts are for my family, but I have found something just as important: catharsis. A mechanism to understand my emotions and to frame them within my memories. As I begin with scraps of otherwise unused and discarded trash and end with a new creation, collaging gently pushes my pent-up, hidden, ugly emotions into the daylight. As I carefully assemble each piece, those thoughts of rage, dysmorphia, and longing begin to transform into an artwork that I can treasure and share. And through this process, I learn that neither my passions or my personality define me, but rather a combination created and cultivated by my actions, my experiences, and my memories. So, rather than define my short artistic endeavors as failures and toss them aside before moving onto the next, I tuck them away in a drawer underneath my bed, allowing them to develop and process amidst other scraps of my existence, until eventually being taken out and placed within an beautiful, imperfect piece of art that can grow and evolves as I do. And to me, that is enough.
