Book 2, chapter 9
I found myself beginning to develop pride in my newly found vocal ability. Everyone who’d said anything about my voice had been impressed by it, and that made me realize that I must be better than I’d thought. I sat there on the piano bench, thinking about it.

All my life, people had thought I was amazing; I was used to that. I was completely at home with being able to do things no one else could do. . . . But the things that amazed people were always somehow related to my telekinesis, and I had been born with that ability through no fault or virtue of my own. They were impressed because I was fast, or because I had good balance; they admired my strength and envied my ability to shoot up into the sky whenever I wanted. But none of that . . . none of that actually meant anything. They might as well be jealous of my hair color.

I knew that to a certain degree a person could be “born with” a good voice, but that alone wouldn’t make anyone a good singer. This wasn’t just some ability I had been born with; it was something I could cultivate and make better, so that I could be amazing in a way I could be proud of, a way that I didn’t have to hide every time I turned around. Something I didn’t have to be just a little ashamed about. Something that would distinguish me instead of just singling me out. A slow smile spread across my lips as I contemplated learning to sing. Maybe everything I had been good at in my life had gone back in some way or another to my powers, but this wasn’t going to. I could show this to people, and really be good, and they would be impressed without being afraid or angry at the same time.

Shortly after that she discovers her wind art—that’s a phenomenon that’s explored in full in its own section—and she finds practicing that art nearly sacred. That develops independently beside her musical ability, which she continues to practice through the end of Book 2 and into Book 3. She suffers a drop in confidence, however, when she begins performing solo; she preferred singing in a group and remains shy.

Book 3, chapter 2
On the stage, a guy was singing a classical art song, and his voice only reminded me of all the things mine would never be. I watched him enviously, wishing I didn’t sound like a child when I sang.

It really freaked me out, this whole performing thing. I felt all shaky even though I was finished. I thought about what I must have sounded like, and I winced. Even though I knew I was a beginner, I still didn’t feel like that was a valid excuse to suck as much as I did. I had a natural musicality and grasp of pitch, but for some reason I just couldn’t project my voice the way everyone else could. It was one reason why I preferred performing in a group to solo performing. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t wanted to perform by myself at all, ever. Justine had assured me that every musician felt that way sometimes, and I just needed practice to become more comfortable in front of an audience. It was hard for me to think of myself that way: As a musician. I didn’t feel like one. I just liked to sing. I wondered why Justine thought that meant I had to sing in front of people just because I was a little bit good at it.

After deciding she really doesn’t get anything out of solo performing, Ivy ends up quitting the voice lessons in favor of looking for something else to do with her life. Adele suggests she look for positions in the arts, which surprises her.

Book 3, chapter 23
Adele: “Look for an open-ended, creative job. . . . ”
Ivy: “I’m not creative.”
Adele: “You are! You’re one of the most creative people I know!”
Ivy: “I am not! I have like no imagination.”
Adele: “I’ve never seen anyone build a sandcastle like you can.”
Ivy: “Yeah, but nobody else has these advantages.” . . . “That doesn’t mean I’m creative. It means it’s easier for me. Probably if other people had my power they would make better ones.”
Adele: “Well, I’ve also never seen anyone who dances like you do. You’re very graceful.”
Ivy: “That’s just ’cause of my energy. Again. If I tried to dance without my energy I’d fall on my face.”
Adele: “Let’s put it this way. Nobody has your fashion sense.”

Finally, she meets Ruben, and ends up focusing on using her energy in a different way for the “special effects” in Ruben’s play. She ends up feeling like her talent is not as special as everyone else’s:

Book 3, chapter 31
Everyone in Ruben’s production had talent too, which was part of the reason I felt like I didn’t belong hanging around with them. I simply wasn’t in their league; I was a big poseur, just like Julia thought. All the actors, of course, had the talent of acting. And the tech crew had special abilities as well. There was Alex, who had to be creative enough to make a light plot for the show. I’d seen one of his light plotting sheets and it had made my head swim; it was so complicated. There was Mitch, who had come up with some great ways to use music to enhance the show, along with ways of piping that music into the show so that the audience received the right message. And even though I really didn’t care for Julia herself, I had to admit that she had a great talent for choosing costumes and drawing the way they would look. Her sketches of the characters’ outfits were quite impressive and all of them fit the characters’ personalities the way I imagined they should. I’d seen plans from the set designer and I’d been in contact with the other artistic types who helped to run the show; it seemed everyone was bubbling with ideas and knowledge. And then there was Ruben, on top of it all; he was the King of Art, as an actor, writer, musician, and all-around artsy dude. I was the only one involved in the show who didn’t really have any talent, even though it was obvious that everyone else thought I was the one with a talent that stood out. It seemed empty next to all those people who’d worked hard on theirs. I couldn’t believe that Adele had once called me “creative”; next to all these people, I didn’t feel like I even had a brain. I was more like a prop mover than part of any technical crew. I felt disappointed in myself.

Ivy is inspired by Ruben’s message regarding the importance of art, so she has tried some of her own:

In the privacy of “my” bedroom, I’d tried doodling with a pencil and had gotten disgusted with how badly I drew. I’d envisioned coming out with a beautiful drawing and having Ruben exclaim over it, but instead I couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be, and I’d thrown it away. I couldn’t paint either; I’d tried that too with a set of watercolors I’d found in the storage closet. The paints ran into each other and angered me. I’d thrown that out too.

The only artistic thing I’d tried that I actually enjoyed was dancing. I hadn’t intended it to be “artistic,” but one day when Ruben had put on some music and gone to do his dishes, I’d begun absentmindedly twirling around in the living room, sometimes dancing on the rug and sometimes a foot or two above. Ruben had managed to watch me for several minutes before I’d noticed him and gotten too embarrassed to continue, but he told me I was a beautiful dancer and that I ought to take lessons sometime. I’d gotten mad when he’d said that, because I knew I wasn’t really dancing; I was only tossing myself around with my energy. I was sure there were no dance steps that involved not touching the floor for a minute or two. I wasn’t sure why it made me angry to hear him call my twirling a “dance,” because that was what I considered it too, but it wasn’t really something that could be translated into human terms as if it was one of their floor dances. Their dancing art depended on physical discipline and training, and mine was a totally natural talent that had nothing to do with learning steps or toning muscles. I felt like maybe my only form of artistic expression was in a form that humans would never accept.

Ivy does, however, manage to be a little bit creative with her abilities during the play:

Book 3, chapter 33
I’d obeyed my whim to make the dry ice steam on the stage do some interesting things. . . . I welcomed the chance to try out what I thought of as “creativity.” Sometimes I created random breezes on the stage or in the audience, or made the dragon stretch its wings or wag its tail to make it more alive. My effects were spooking out a couple of the people in the booth with me, though.

She ends up having to actually practice some of her effects, which bothers her, but Ruben puts it into perspective for her:

“Oh, well, I don’t understand it because I think you shouldn’t have any objections to practicing.” . . . “What you have is a talent. Since it’s not exactly a talent I’ve ever seen anyone have, there aren’t teachers of it, or schools of thought on technique or anything.” . . . “But it’s still just like anything else. Singers start out with a talent for singing, and to develop it, they take lessons from more experienced teachers. You just happen to have a talent where . . . there isn’t anyone else to offer advice. So you’ve gotta school yourself. To get better, any talent needs honing, and . . . that takes practice.”

Ivy continues to be influenced by Ruben in her ideas about art. At first she simply denies what he says about her:

Book 4, chapter 1
Ivy: “There’s only one kind of art I’m good at.”
Ruben: “Don’t believe that. It’s bull. Almost everyone can do almost everything.”
Ivy: “Not me.”
Ruben: “Oh, come on, why not you?”
Ivy: “Painting, sculpting, drawing, playing instruments . . . they all require coordination. I just can’t work with my hands.”
Ruben: “Please. There’s other forms of art. Singing, acting—”
Ivy: “I feel awkward on stage.”
Ruben: “There’s dancing, you can dance beautifully—”
Ivy: “If I cheat.”
Ruben: “And there’s writing.”
Ivy: “I can’t do that either.”
Ruben: “How hard have you tried?”
Ivy: “I can’t explain why I can’t write. Because I’m not good enough with words to even tell you that.”
Ruben: “But there are stories in you.”
Ivy: “I live my stories.”

When he opens his creativity workshop business and allows her to be present for the first session, she ponders art:

Book 4, chapter 12
I wondered what would happen once Ruben actually started teaching. He was going to dabble in music creation with the kids, let them make instruments and play them. He said he was going to have them write poetry and stories about their art projects, make art projects about their dreams, and inspire dreams with their music. He had told me that when he integrated the art for them, it would not only be connected to other kinds of art and creative thinking, but to their actual lives. Then maybe they could fill the world with beautiful thoughts like he could. Bells went off in my head when I tried to imagine the way Ruben must think, if ideas blossomed in his head all the time like they were in mine as I watched the kids. And who knew, maybe mine weren’t even very good ideas! If my ideas were flowers, his were entire gardens. Ruben had the power to change the world with his thoughts. That astounded me, and made me wonder how so many people could see my powers as mind-boggling when Ruben existed. My thoughts could only move objects. His could move the world.

Nicholas later refers to her as an artist when he observes how fluidly she uses her energy:

Book 4, chapter 34
“You use your power with such grace.” . . . “And you move like a dancer when you are in flight.” . . . “You seem to express yourself well through movement.” . . . “Are you versed in the art? Have you danced in the past?” . . . “I just take great pleasure in watching the way you move. You flounce about as though you were part of the air, so perfect . . . it stirs something in me that I cannot describe.”

She counters that he’s wrong about her being graceful; that she’s a “complete klutz” without using her energy, and that it’s the only graceful piece of her. He claims that it “counts”:

“Your mind understands the concepts of grace and beauty and fluidity of movement; if it did not, you could not move as you do. Whether your body can execute the grace you grasp is moot.”

He tells her he wishes to see her dance sometime; no one has seen her dance except Zeke and Ruben, and she says she’d feel awkward doing it for Nicholas, but still, she’s flattered.

By Book 5, Ivy sometimes refers to herself as “an artist” when people ask her what she does; she really considers her wind art to be one of her most meaningful roles. She’s integrated her artistic soul with the means she can best use to express it. Despite her abysmal dexterity and her lack of literary technique, Ivy has accepted that she can be creative in many ways, and regardless of whether they are conventional ways, they still count as art.