My Creative Journey

It takes many people to create an artist.

“It takes a village” is cliché, but I can’t think of a better way to describe my gratitude to all who’ve made my creative journey possible. Foremost is my husband, Greig. He convinced me to pursue my art when we first met and continues to be my greatest advocate.

I never intended to be an artist. As soon as I learned to write, I enjoyed playing with words more than images. Most of my failed drawings and paintings languished in boxes, in closets, and under beds. When I mustered enough courage to show them to Greig, his enthusiasm gave me the courage to rekindle my passion for art.

One summer afternoon, after failing to find a birthday present for my mother, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out three chicken eggs. I emptied one and drew the tree of life on its surface, a perfect gift to thank her for bringing me into the world. I painted the second egg for Greig — an image of a woman offering her dreams to the stars. Later, to thank my neighbor for supporting my new egg painting efforts, I rendered images from his favorite novel on the third. Soon a gallery owner contacted me, and my accidental career as an egg painter began. I quit my day job, threw art supplies and cartons of eggs into my backpack, and painted miniature worlds everywhere I went. Ancient civilizations, folk tales, legends, dreams, creation myths, and favorite memories graced the surfaces of all kinds of infertile bird eggs given to me by a local aviculturalist. My work sold quickly. I gathered more stories, and painted more eggs. Greig even designed an “egg tent” to showcase my work at outdoor art festivals.

Cathee and Greig’s “Egg Tent” at a Northstar art show in 1980.

I might have made a comfortable living if I’d continued in this vein. But a four-year-old boy changed everything.

When he asked if I’d show him how to paint an egg, I hesitated. He was way too young. And into everything. But those eyes. And his irresistible smile. Before I knew it, he was running upstairs to my studio. I found him sitting cross-legged on the floor with my blue painting pillow on his lap, waiting for me to hand him an egg. Without thinking, I gave him a full carton. His little fingers fumbled the cardboard latch as he opened the box, and all dozen eggs flew out (luckily, I’d already emptied them). I was sure that would be the end of our lesson. But no. Immediately, he helped me pick up the pieces, tossed them in the wastebasket, and resumed his “ready” position on the floor. Thinking I’d learned from my mistake, I gave him only one eggshell this time. He accidentally crushed it in his fist, released a tiny cry, picked up the pieces, threw them away, and was ready to try again. He poked a marker through the next egg. And the next. But he didn’t give up. Neither did I.

Then something unexpected happened. His entire demeanor changed. He adjusted the pillow, straightened his spine, took a breath, and cradled a new egg in his hands as if he’d never seen anything like it. He selected his favorite marker and began to draw. If you’ve ever seen a four-year-old lost in the magical world of creativity, you understand the exhilaration I felt the moment he handed me his first marker painting on a delicate—and intact—eggshell.

He painted twelve eggs that day. Delightful eggs. Transformative eggs. I say this because at first, he may not have realized eggshells were fragile. When it finally dawned on him, he seemed to instinctively know how to take care of them.

The day that little boy convinced me to let him paint on eggshells was the day I learned two of the most valuable lessons of my life: the importance of caring in our fragile world—and the importance of learning from children.

A period of considerable soul-searching followed. I decided to refine my own approach to painting on eggshells. Instead of using watercolors (which have a tendency to fade), I learned to paint with acrylics, a fast-drying and relatively stable medium. Instead of painting like an assembly-line worker, I took time to thoroughly research each theme, choosing images to reflect my new way of experiencing the world. I studied the techniques of the masters whose work I admired while living in Italy and learned how to adapt my methods so my plastic paints would mimic oils. I researched endangered cultures, endangered plants and animals, and endangered habitats. The eggshell became a perfect canvas for illuminating everything fragile. I worked hard to become a better painter, a better storyteller, and a better person. “Fill yourself with care” became my new mantra. As I stumbled through each day, I quickly learned how easy it is to say such things and how hard it is to practice them. Recalling the little boy’s perseverance convinced me to keep trying.

There are times I come to understand how every experience, every memory, every relationship—whether good, bad, scary, traumatic, misunderstood, delightful, or satisfying—is a gift. When the demands of deadlines, family dramas, and news headlines overwhelm me, I think of New Zealand’s Kiwi bird. Though she’s only about the size of a chicken and cannot fly, I consider her one of the most amazing creatures on this planet. She lays an egg that can reach one-quarter of her size and weight, proportionately larger than the eggs of any other bird.

Courage. Every mother knows that’s what it takes to bring life into this world. And look at what emerges from the shell: Hope. How beautiful is that?