I’m a lot of things really—daughter, sister, lover, wife, mother and grandmother, all roles defined by my relationship to others.
I’ve held many jobs, in service and professional industries, paid and unpaid.
I am a writer. I manifested that for myself. I know it to be true, because I write something every day, because I have been published in many forms for more than 30 years now, because my first novel was published last year.
I’m also a dabbler in the arts. I long to manifest beauty from the tips of my fingers. This yearning existed before any notion of being a writer seized me. One day a week, I gather with others at the studio of a friend, where we draw and paint in companionship. I take real life and online classes, and watch endless instruction videos on Youtube. I have my own studio, and while I don’t make art every day, I’ve none-the-less made a lot of art.
I never call myself an artist. I think because so much of the art I create does not satisfy my eye. On the other hand, I believe that most of what I write (published or not) shines. My writing is often praised. I neglected to mention up top that I am also a praise junkie; I thrive on the words of others telling me I’ve done a good job.
But I’ve received praise for my art, and sold pieces without that ever being the intent. Why then do I resist identifying as an artist?
This early face was painted with craft grade acrylic, eye makeup pencils and chalk. I didn’t even know what mixed media was then. I thought this painting was amateurish, like something out of a coloring book. Somebody bought it. Now several years into taking online classes and watching hundreds of instruction videos on Youtube, I’m struggling to find my own style while emulating techniques and stylistic features of other artists. When I look at this face that so effortlessly flowed from my mind, heart and hands I have to wonder if I haven’t suffocated it.
A mixed media collage—again before the countless hours of online instruction. Again, it sold quickly. Again, I was surprised by that.
These little fishes were sent off to the 2013 ROCO 6×6 show (#2447) if you care to find it there). I was once again surprised when I found out that somebody forked over a small bit of cash to take my fishes home.
I don’t remember when I finally started identifying as a writer. I don’t recall what self defined criteria for validation I finally met. I’m not even sure why I have a desire to believe I am an artist. What difference would it make?
Isn’t it enough that I enjoy the process?
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I’m blogging along with Effy Wild and her talented tribe for the month of September. Click on the cool badge to find out more.→