How Dolly Parton Influenced My Art

Dolly Parton was hugely important to me. 

I grew up watching Steel Magnolias and quoting, “There is no such thing as natural beauty.” The only song I ever learned to play on the guitar is “Jolene.” My friend in Australia and I periodically send “9 to 5” to each other. People buy me Dolly Parton-themed gifts.

But Dolly’s influence on me goes much deeper than songs, movies, jokes, and rhinestones. It’s not an exaggeration to say she shaped the way I think about beauty, ambition, femininity—and, ultimately, my own art.

My freshman year of college, I was part of the Women’s Leadership Program at GW. A small group of us lived together, took classes together, and went on outings around Washington, DC. Our cohort was arts-focused, and the program included an English class about women in the arts. For our final paper, we had to write about an inspiring female artist.

I chose Dolly Parton.

At the time, I thought I was being rebellious. We had been studying cerebral, esoteric artists, and I chose Dolly because she was sparkly and fun. At the time, in the early 2000s, Dolly was still often dismissed as silly or frivolous—not quite the universally revered cultural icon she is today.

But the more I researched her, the more I admired her.

Dolly was a feminist icon in her own right. She came from very little, worked incredibly hard, made beautiful things, and cared about other people along the way. She changed what was possible for women without constantly having to announce that she was doing it. She could be glamorous and intelligent, funny and serious, generous and ambitious. She refused to choose just one thing.

Dolly’s song, “Coat of Many Colors” is especially significant to me. I think I first heard it when I watched Dolly’s Kennedy Center Honors ceremony. Sarah McLachlan performed the song, and it brought me to tears.

The song tells the story of a patchwork coat Dolly’s mother made for her from donated fabric scraps. Dolly was proud of the coat, even though the other kids at school made fun of her for wearing it.

I wasn’t born in a Tennessee shack with dirt floors, like Dolly, but there was something about that story I understood immediately. My mother was a schoolteacher and the breadwinner for our family. And I remember what it felt like to have kids make fun of your clothes.

My mother also made a lot of clothes for me. Not my only winter coat, but she made my prom dress, and when I was little, she cross-stitched designs onto my turtlenecks. I was always so proud of the things she made—until I went to school and realized that no one else was wearing handmade clothes.

The lesson of the song, though, is there are things far more valuable than money. You can be rich in love, creativity, family, and imagination, even when you aren’t rich in the ways the world tells you to be. Dolly understood that making something beautiful is not frivolous.

Of course, I am also drawn to Dolly because I’m blonde.

Dolly famously said, “I’m not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb… and I also know that I’m not blonde.”

Dumb-blonde jokes were everywhere when I was growing up in the 80s. I always thought they were funny because I knew they weren’t really talking about me.

Still, I grew up understanding that people make assumptions about you based on how you look. But that’s really why Dolly was so great; her outward appearance is only one part of who she is. The rhinestones, the big hair, the makeup, the costumes—all of it can make you think you know what she is about. And then she surprises you.

Maybe that is the best part of being blonde: proving people wrong when they have low expectations of you. With Dolly’s spirit in mind, I intend to keep dyeing my hair blonde until the day I die.

Dolly’s passing has also made me think differently about my own art.

Dolly was many things at once, and your first impression of her could be misleading. She could look frivolous and be profound. She could be glamorous and deeply grounded. She could make people laugh while quietly changing their lives.

That tension between the surface and what lies underneath is something I recognize in my own work, especially The Bell Jar Series.

When we first moved back to New Orleans, I was struggling mentally and emotionally. I felt trapped in a golden cage of my own making. I had moved to a city I love, into a gorgeous new house, and my little family was thriving—and yet I felt confused, resentful, listless, and uninspired.

The Bell Jar shadowboxes are tiny, brightly colored containers. They are whimsical and jewel-like at first glance, but there’s more underneath the brightness.

I pushed myself to use bright colors in honor of New Orleans, deliberately moving away from the muted blues and browns I had used in the past. But when I look back at the pieces now, the colors almost seem out of place. I was working from the outside in.

Just like costuming for Mardi Gras, I was putting on the colors and the sparkle first, willing myself to make art, willing myself to be content.

And that’s not so different from what I have always loved about Dolly.

The outside can be bright and beautiful without being shallow. The costume can be playful without hiding the truth. Something can be covered in rhinestones and still have something profound to say.

Dolly taught me that a woman doesn’t have to become less feminine, less glamorous, less funny, or less colorful in order to be taken seriously. She taught me that you can make pretty things and still have something important to say.

Maybe that is why Dolly has meant so much to me all these years. She gave me permission to believe that beauty and depth are not opposites. That playfulness can be meaningful. And that the things we create, from fine art to a coat made from scraps, can carry much more meaning than what you see on the surface.