A few brief truths;
I am an artist. I have been an artist since the day I was born and I have loved and hated it by turns every day of my life.
I'm sure that I'm neither a good nor a bad artist, just that I am one. Perhaps, at times, a reluctant one.
At first, I dearly wanted to be something serious and important; like a mathematician. That dream died upon realizing that I am genuinely dreadful at math. Really horrid. It's actually quite appalling.
The notion, though, spoke to my insatiable need for order. It spoke to my desire to please my brilliant mother, whose creativity I lost sight of in the middle of her staggering intellect. A mother who only ever encouraged me to be just what I was.
But I was like Jonah and I ran, instead. I spent years hidden away, attempting to stifle every scrap of expression, trying to fill shoes that were never mine, which I had no business trying to parade around in. It wasn't a wonder that all the things I tried to do, I did clumsily. The tragedy was that for a few years, I lived under the the inaccurate notion that I was a chronic failure and that this was bad. In fact, everyone who does anything with any degree of proficiency has to spend some time as a chronic failure. That's how it should be. It means you're doing the work. The problem is when you're trying to do something you weren't designed for. What did Einstein say? Something about how stupid a fish is if he spends his time trying to fly? No. I looked it up. He said;
"Everybody is a Genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid"
I'm mixing my metaphors. I think what I'm saying is that I was a fish trying to wear the wrong shoes and that never goes well...
Ten years ago, I met a man who encouraged me to stop spending so much effort trying to succeed as a tree-climbing, shoe wearing fish. He fought to help me understand why I ought to take off the crazy shoes and put something on my feet that I could actually go someplace in.
I married him, of course.
Now, I'm recovering from my reluctance. And by that, I mean, I'm still an artist, but now I'm one who is learning how to breathe in this creative skin. Bit by bit I'm bringing out the mountains of creativity I have guiltily hoarded. Half filled notebooks stashed in closets, code-like scrawl trailing through pages. Piles of photos stuffed in boxes, and music, wrung out of me and then muted. There's mountains of it and I think that might be small compared to potential energy that remains untapped. Bit by bit, my recovery walks me down roads of fearless exposition, and plunges me head first in the humility required to let loose of it all - to be a beginner, to be a failure, to be okay with that.
In the meantime, I've learned that somewhere between what I'm still just learning and what I already do pretty well lies this recurring need, which shapes what I'm learning and how I'm growing as an artist. I need to tell stories. Turns out, that's why I art.
What kinds of stories? All kinds, really. Yours, if you like. I play with fiction, but I'm passionate about real life. I love multi-media, and when I can, I tell a story using more than one medium because every medium adds another layer of clarity.
So, somewhere between a confession and an uncensored record lives this little site, where the artist and the counselor, the wife, the chef, and the vagabond all come out to play, all of me, wrapped up into one disbelieving thirty-something year old who is ready to belly up to my life, stop starting over and finally, just...lean in.
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