She even moved it to a friend’s art studio, charged a modest admission, and paid rent. People came in off the street. The place was packed. Pretty soon Laurie was sick of it. 'I don’t want to be a facilitator,' she mourned.

So Bad Art came back home to our dining room. The Tuesday gatherings are much more than art fests; they’re mini-salons in which the Bad Art Nighters talk about politics, love, spirituality, and their next moves in life. (Nothing gets talk flowing like having something to do with your hands.) We inspire one another; if you’re stuck on a prissy little drawing (as I often am) and afraid to make it wild, you can glance at your neighbor’s piece, a riot of tropical color slathered over a cereal box, and immediately feel a dizzying sense of freedom. Professional artists, crafts types, dabblers, and doodlers, all are welcome at the double table. Only boldness counts—and, we say, if you can’t be bold, at least be bad.

Doing exactly what we want with art from moment to moment, celebrating impulse, defying the little voice by making mad art-gestures, has had repercussions. 'I’m much more likely now to dare to be a bad cook, a bad designer, a bad manager,' says Laurie. 'All that means is, I’m more likely to forge ahead, and happily make mistakes, and learn wonderful things from them, in all parts of my life.' And then, with a flourish, she adds even more little dots to the space between the toucan and the map.

Contributing editor Jon Spayde and his wife, Laurie Phillips, live artfully in St. Paul.