“Guy!” I would hear my father call. I knew the tone. It was the one that he had used before and it is the same tone that he would be using again another day. He found my name written somewhere in the house. It might have been on a wall, in a closet, on a baseboard or a window frame. I wrote my name everywhere. Sometimes it was discrete. Other times it was not. It started as soon as I could put the letters of my first name together. I was wide-eyed and electric when I realized that the combination of those three individual characters represented me. I instantly felt compelled to make my mark. The location did not matter. Nor did the writing utensil. I wrote it in the fog on the bathroom mirror with my finger. I wrote it on my plate in the residue of food with a knife. I spelled it out with objects gathered from around the house. I even tagged the asphalt with aerosol and lit it with a match. It frustrated my dad. He would say, “I can’t believe you,” shake his head in disbelief and walk away. I would laugh. It would be over until the next time when my mark was seen.
My mother’s cousin was a mark maker. He would come over to the house with his wife and they would play cards with my parents. I liked him. He had a kind heart and no matter what he was doing, he would light up and turn his attention toward me when I entered the room. He did this to everyone (it was his nature) but I liked the way it made me feel significant in his presence. I was a kid. He was an adult. Those roles did not matter when we talked. He was genuinely interested in me and what I had to say. He came to me expectant which caused me to rise up into my best self. He was listening. I was lifted when he was around. I was able to have a real conversation about things that mattered to me. I walked a little taller after he left. He did not write his name on the wall of the house but he tagged his essence upon my soul.
I recall reading about Robert Irwin’s time in the studio when he was creating his line paintings. His approach was to sit, look at the image before him and wait. He would contemplate the mark he placed upon the canvas and listen. Sometimes he would be led to move it every so slightly up or down. The movement may have been minuscule to the eye but to the overall vision of the work, it visually sang in major chords. I was struck by how incredible it was that this artist was so attentive to placing a line of paint in such a way that supported the purpose of the piece. He placed his lines with sincerity. He was consciously aware of how the placement of the mark would impact the work.
It is my desire to make marks with focused intention. Marks that provide hope and point to possibility. Marks that stir contemplation and move someone to a greater space. I want to be aware of the affect I am having on others whether it is through my life, my art or my spirituality. Much like my need to write my name, I am compelled to leave a mark.