You Can Learn a Lot From a Radish

There is a different kind of radish for every season.  Spring and summer radishes are the ones we all recognize.  They grow quickly, but they are generally small and not terribly interesting.  The winter varieties are far more exciting.  They have exotic names like the “Black Spanish” and the French “Gors Noir d’Hiver”.  They have dark, rough skin and “hot-flavored” flesh.  They can be big and round or pear-shaped and are very hearty.  Radishes are the garden metaphor for women.  When in our “winter” season, we may be bigger or pear-shaped, but we are still “hot” at our core and far superior to the premature spring and summer versions.

One woman was dressed as a radish.  More interpretive than literal, but definitely radish.  The dark red paint smeared on her face and the tuft of salad greens rubber-banded to the top of her head put me strangely at ease.  Her shameless interpretation of the theme was the reminder I needed to not take the evening’s challenge or myself too seriously.

The Facebook invitation was titled, “The Night of the Radish.”  Some of the creative-types from my old book club had decided to host an evening to “share our reflections and artistic interpretations on a theme.”  The theme was a radish.  I’m not kidding.

The idea was that with enough creative mojo, even a radish could be interesting, and maybe even beautiful.  They even created an adorable illustrated logo for the night, knowing it would be the first of many such gatherings.

I knew it would be a fun night, but I was intimidated. I didn’t have anything to share.  I wasn’t like them.  I didn’t make anything.  I never have made anything.   I was just a mom who, in an effort to fit in, professed that I liked to write.  I was a fraud.

These women were artists. They had converted their garages or basements or barns into working studios where they could paint or throw clay or weave.  They hosted workshops, taught classes and successfully sold their wares at shows and online.  I wasted time pecking out essays now and again when I was bored or contemplating therapy.  My writing was just for my own amusement and had remained safely hidden on my hard drive.  It was definitely not art.

The Radish challenged me to step outside of my comfort zone and write something that I would have to share.  Scary.

When I made my way past Radish Lady, I saw an amazing display of multi-media salad fixins’.  The room was filled with canvases, small and large, featuring the signature red root in oil, acrylic, watercolor and ink.  There were clay sculptures and hand-carved print blocks.  The hostesses’ kids got into the act, creating poems, crayon drawings, a song and even a lego radish.

We looked at each piece and talked about the colors, the concepts and the techniques involved.  Some pieces were rich and sophisticated.  Others were whimsical and fresh.

We swayed along to a Blues song written and sung by the wood-worker in the bunch. She had recently been exploring her range in the performing arts – stand-up comedy, jazz singer, acoustic guitar.

The ceramic artisan stole the show with her culinary talents, offering a killer radish dip.  What’s not to love about edible art?

My contribution was basically a sideways glance at a Google search about radishes.  It was sprinkled with self-absorbed reflections about leaving my go-go career to be a stay-at-home mom, but it hit home with some people.  It felt great to finally share something that I had written.

The Night of the Radish gave us each the opportunity to find a way, any way, to create something — anything.  But, more importantly, it forced us to share our creations.  And it was that act of sharing that made it art.