The Lesson Behind the Mask

I am a procrastinator. I admit it. I am trying to change, but it’s hard, so I keep putting it off. Naturally.

But something happened the other day that gave me a feeling of hope. I found something I had saved, a modest work of art that I made in high school, that had actually come about because of procrastination. Not only did I make the deadline, I produced something that won praise from my teacher. I have kept it all these years—in fact, I just could not bear to throw it away—in part, I think, because it reminds me that if desperation at the deadline could inspire me then, it just might inspire me now. And if I could rise to the occasion then, I might have the confidence to stop procrastinating now.

I am convinced that a lot of my procrastination is rooted not in laziness, but in fear of not being able to do a good job, or not being able to produce something that is up to my standards. If you experience the same feelings, then this story is for you, too.

I’ll begin with what happened in high school.

My art class was assigned to make a mask. The teacher, who was a nun—it was an all-girls Catholic school—was a talented artist and a very good teacher. She told us that we could use any medium, including papier mache and, I think, clay or cloth or whatever else came to hand.

This gave me no consolation. I knew nothing about making papier mache, except that I was pretty sure it involved water and sheets of newspaper and flour paste. I envisioned myself with my fingers sticking together, paste in my hair, and tears slipping down my floury cheeks. I knew it wasn’t going to work.

So I did what I always do. I put off the project. I told myself that some way, somehow, an idea would strike me and I’d get the project rolling. I would go to school with a completed mask which, if it wasn’t brilliantly executed, would at least meet the teacher’s requirement.

Only that didn’t happen. I searched every corner of my brain and came up dry. Construction paper would crumple and look terrible. Cloth was out of the question; I can’t sew, either. The aforementioned papier mache would stick to everything, and anyway I had no talent for molding images out of any malleable substance.

But could I swallow the ignominy of failing art? Of being the only student who could not produce even a lame version of a mask? No.

The day before the mask was due, I finally had an idea, born, as usual, out of desperation. I don’t remember exactly when it struck, but it might have dragged its feet until I was on the school bus heading home. The idea came suddenly, almost proudly: A coconut! I would buy a coconut and paint a face on it! Using a coconut would remove the need to construct an object out of paste or paper or cardboard or any other substance. Coconuts come ready-made! All I would need to do is paint a scary face on it, and I’d be done! Since coconuts don’t grow in my part of the world, the mask would look exotic and might have an aura of mystery and intrigue. And since everyone else in my class was probably going to use a more traditional artistic medium, it was more than likely that there would be no other coconut masks to inspire unfavorable comparisons.

When the school bus reached my town, I disembarked at a different location from my usual stop: outside a supermarket. I walked in and headed for the produce department. Luckily, there was a bin of fine-looking coconuts waiting for me. I picked up one and then another, evaluating each one carefully, and then I found the perfect one for my project. It was nicely rounded, but it seemed to have a definite top and bottom. There was a kind of small, slender, pointed stem at the top, as though the coconut had been plucked from a branch like an apple. The bottom of the coconut, opposite the tiny stem, ended in a fibrous point covered by what looked like hair. It made me think immediately of a beard and I knew I could easily paint a face just above it

I bought the coconut and headed for a stationery store, where I bought a paintbrush and a set of poster paints in small glass jars. The paints were in primary colors, just what I wanted.

That evening, I put my coconut on a table and got to work. First I took a lead pencil and sketched out a face on the coconut, being careful to center the eyes, nose and mount directly over the “beard.” Then I dipped my brush into the paint and put a face on the coconut. I painted large, round blue eyes with a yellow dot in the exact center and a yellow rim around the edge. Then I painted a long, bright-green nose. When it had dried a bit, I put a zigzag white line down the center.

For the mouth, I painted a horizontal oval in black, an inch high, with a bright red lip line around the rim. Inside the black space I put pointed white teeth, two above and two below.

Luckily I happened to have some leftover loops from the days when I was weaving potholders. I found a couple of shiny plastic rings mounted with fake jewels, slipped the rings onto the loops, and glued a loop to each side of the coconut to serve as ears.

It didn’t take long, and my colorful mask looked delightfully fierce and boldly representative of a different time and culture. I was excited and amazed that I could produce something that actually appeared to be artistic and maybe even creative.

The next morning I brought my mask to school, figuring that if it didn’t rate any special praise from the teacher, at least I had something to submit. I had tried, I had made an effort. Surely she wouldn’t fail me.

Her reaction amazed me: She liked my mask so much that she put it into the display case outside the art room, along with some of the best mask submissions by other students. There my mask reposed for a few weeks, to be viewed and admired by other students and any visitors who happened by. When the exhibit ended, I brought my mask home and kept it in a box. When I moved from a house to an apartment many years later, I brought it with me. Several times I told myself that I ought to throw it away, but I couldn’t.

Now I know why. The mask teaches me several lessons I need to remember.

First, the mask came into existence out of desperation. I had a deadline that I kept postponing, and now I needed to meet it or fail. Instead of giving up, I thought hard and came up with an idea. I had no assurance that I would succeed, but I knew that trying and failing was immeasurably better than failing because I didn’t try. Along the way I discovered that I could do it. Lesson One: Making an effort is immeasurably better than doing nothing. Effort might lead to success. Doing nothing leads inevitably to failure.

After I had made my idea into reality, I discovered that it met with approval. Lesson Two: Don’t assume that you can’t do it. You might succeed beyond what you expect.

Even though I don’t have any unusual artistic talent, my mask ended up on display with the work of people more artistically talented than I. Lesson Three: Don’t underestimate how well you might do. Don’t expect mediocrity.

I felt a great deal of satisfaction when the project was complete. Lesson Four: Doing what needs to be done imparts a feeling of competence, and that feeling grows with each effort at completing a project.

Not long ago I had some work to do that I was putting off. On impulse, I took my mask out of the box where I had stored it and placed it where I can see it. Now I am doing the work I need to get done. The paint on the mask has faded a bit, but the message is still there in full color: I can do this. I will succeed.

I’m keeping the mask.