Leaf by Niggle, leftover art, and the pursuit of mediocrity

I didn't expect to become obsessed with a short story about a middle-aged male painter. I read it reluctantly. I'm not even into visual arts. 

My last post discussed Hutchmoot: Homebound's online conference on creativity and faith, but I left out the part that most deeply impacted me: J.R.R. Tolkien's autobiographical, allegorical short story "Leaf by Niggle." Hutchmoot organizers encouraged all participants to download it and some related nonfiction, read them, and participate in the discussion forum. At first I grumbled that I couldn't make time before the conference, but I'm glad I did.

I first skimmed the introduction and learned that readers often find it confusing and unremarkable at the first read-through, but that it's profoundly impacted many. Of course I wanted to be one of the star-studded few who instantly grasped its weight, and of course I wasn't. I tracked pretty well at first, but got stuck trying to decipher the allegory about 2/3 of the way in. (Later I read an interview with Tolkien saying to treat it more as a myth - it came to him one night and he didn't try too hard to make everything correspond.) But once I read comments from other readers, re-read it myself, and watched a Hutchmoot lecture on it by Matthew Dickerson, it consumed my thoughts. 

Tolkien put himself and his Lord of the Rings writing into Niggle, an aging painter, more eccentric than gifted. Despite all our differences, I can relate to Niggle. Like him, I struggle to focus, seethe at other people interrupting to request help, and worry whether others think my work is any good. Like him, my talents are ordinary, barely enough for a decent attempt at painting a leaf. Like him, I watch in dread as time melts away, trying to forget that I am mortal. And though I can't say I have a vision for my life's greatest work like an epic trilogy or the great tree Niggle scrambled to complete, I too can glimpse aching beauty in distant forests and glimmering mountains, far beyond my ability to capture. 

I'm also like his neighbor Parish, a no-nonsense gardener who finds it easier to notice Niggle's weeds out front than his lush landscapes in the studio. I can struggle to say something kind about others' deficiencies and completely miss their gifts. I can focus on my pain and be blinded to theirs. I can convince myself that their time, wood, and canvas would be better served patching my leaky roof than fulfilling an artistic vision. 

Like both of them, how I use my life matters more than I know. And it's not too late for good to come of it. Tolkien follows Niggle's story through his "long journey" away from home and into the afterlife. Despite some gloomy bits it's a hopeful story: not necessarily hopeful that things will all work out just in time, but hopeful that all is not lost when they don't. Readers watch Niggle grow in ways somehow akin to the Velveteen Rabbit.

I coerced my three fellow Hutchmoot participants into reading it with me, and we had a follow-up discussion focusing on it. We talked about art and community, how they feed off each other, and how to find our place in both. We talked about holding onto vision and being generous with our time amid a frenzy of demands and requests. We talked about savoring the form of art instead of trying to reduce it to a point and move on. We talked about the power we hold to encourage and support those around us who share their creations. 

I asked my friends, "Is it worth trying to do something when I know I'll be mediocre at best for quite a while, possibly forever? Let's say I attempt songwriting. If the first 100+ songs I write are bad to middling, and I may never make it past those to anything decent, is there still value in my effort?" For Niggle, there was. He was a painter. Even if his best work never surpassed mediocrity, painting is what he was made for. What am I made for? Have I even found it yet? 

My grandma just moved into the nursing home in her retirement community, and my parents and her other kids have been cleaning out her cluttered apartment. Recently I went through 169 photos to sign up for items in her home: silver from her parents' wedding, quilts she stitched, figurines she collected, baskets she wove, paintings by her and her Uncle Ed. Fresh from reading Niggle, my eyes brimmed up looking at the list.

Mamaw always told me she wasn't artistic, not like Uncle Ed, the professional. I never met Ed and knew him only by his oil paintings in Mamaw and Papaw's house: rundown farms and European cityscapes and abstract shapes and lifelike portraits. But a few years ago, I heard he was also such a good cartoonist that a young Walt Disney had tried and failed to recruit him. 

As a child, I asked Mamaw for help drawing a girl's feet wearing tights. She grudgingly attempted it while decrying her efforts, which I thought were perfect. Mamaw grew up with her widowed mother, grandparents, and an adolescent Uncle Ed (much her mother's junior), who later drifted in and out between travels. I wonder how often her childhood drawings and paintings were compared to Ed's. Intimidating!

Mamaw's in the middle, with one of her Uncle Ed's paintings behind her

An Uncle Ed painting that my sister claimed

Unlike Niggle and Uncle Ed, Mamaw's never been "a painter." Sewing probably best defined her creativity, along with crafting, dancing, and cooking. But in her 70's, she started taking painting lessons with other retirees, I think mostly copying pieces by more prominent artists. Her work eventually brightened her walls next to Uncle Ed's paintings, tangible examples of pushing through insecurity toward creativity. 

A painting by Mamaw 

I was one of the last grandchildren to peruse the list of items and make my requests. Unlike Mamaw's hand-woven baskets, colorful quilts, and award-winning smocked baby clothes, none of her art had been claimed. Dismayed, I sat pondering. On one hand, though I signed up for a painting, getting things to Cambodia poses a hurdle. On the other hand, I love Mamaw, and her artwork is way better than mine. 

Without a family to inherit his paintings, Niggle's work is soon scattered and discarded. One charming leaf on a corner of the canvas makes it into a local museum... which later burns down. What about Mamaw? If her paintings end up in thrift stores, even during her lifetime, does that mean they didn't matter? How can I celebrate this prolific, feisty woman who no longer has any use for her paintbrushes, sewing machine, tap and ballet shoes, or gigantic stash of knitting needles? As her memory and daily life shrink ever smaller, I want her legacy in my life to stay far bigger. 

One of Mamaw's intricately smocked dresses, passed down from my cousin to her daughter

So I started writing music. I've long appreciated great songs and enjoyed making up new lyrics or arranging hymns and carols for guitar, but I've never attempted anything original. The past few weeks, I've been playing around with lyrics and a few guitar riffs. (Mine aren't nearly as rock'n'roll as "riffs" would suggest!) It's been tricky trying to merge together music and words, since they tend to come to me separately and resist each other. But after multiple spurts that went nowhere, something is starting to gel toward a song. I keep making changes to both lyrics and music, trying to wrangle it into expressing my heart and satisfying my ears, but it's felt cathartic starting to get it out. 

I shared my newborn song with the other Hutchmooters, a much more supportive audience than Niggle's neighbor Parish. I was nervous, but performing it felt less risky because I'd invested only a couple weeks into it, not years or decades. I don't think I missed my destiny as a singer-songwriter, but I do think I'll keep experimenting. Whether we're teachers or painters or basket weavers or organizers or personal trainers or a little bit of everything, we're God's image-bearers who are meant to create boldly and wholeheartedly.

The lyrics are based on a story that's not mine to tell, at least not in a public forum like this. So instead, here's a scrap of guitar music that's been rolling around in my head, waiting to be fleshed out with vocals and more guitar. I'm kinda stuck on where to take it from here, but it feels like it has more life in it than this. 

It's far from an opus, but Niggle taught me that even fragments can spark imagination and gleam joy. If you have ideas for ways to nudge it forward, I'm all ears! Art and community are meant to interact and nurture each other. This is my way to carry on Mamaw's legacy of courageously creating, of hanging imperfect pieces on the wall. (FYI: Several of Mamaw's paintings are now on her grandchildren's walls, including this one below, which my sister just put up.) Like Niggle's, maybe the value of Mamaw's endeavors... and mine... isn't limited to the prominence they receive.