Art
They say that artists are never happy with their work. I’ve even heard it said that the work must not be good if the artist is happy with it. Part of me rebels against that thought. Because part of me still wants to be an artist.
I don’t really consider myself an artist. I make pretty things. Unique things. And a lot of things with the purpose of selling something else. I’m a designer, an illustrator, a creator, and a story teller, but not an artist. And I usually enjoy what I make. I’m quite rusty in some areas, but generally I am talented and can produce good to fine quality work with an occasional foray into excellence.
I went to college for Fine Arts. For painting to be specific. I thought I would be trained in techniques and skills. What I got was a bunch of professor’s attempts at brainwashing me into thinking Art was what they thought it should be. Some of what they said got in, and then my personality readjusted it. Now, I’m far more ready to see the art in things I wouldn’t before. To appreciate things I wouldn’t before. To even be able to admire and appreciate something I personally don’t really like. That happens more often than you'd think.
But recently, I started thinking about art differently. Not the jumbled elitist mess that they talked about in college. But as something that has a part of the artist in it. Part of the soul. Something she struggles with. Something she loves. Something deeper that needs to get out. It is a way to deal with issues, or a way to whisper to someone else. Art is like a Spelling. She is fleeting. If you do not capture her in the moment she comes, she is gone.
So when an artist takes time to paint. To draw. To write. To make music. They are trying to capture this fleeting part of themselves. It changes as they give it form. Their skill level gets in the way. Life tries to interfere, and in the end, they look at some poor representation of the Art. Like trying to look through a sheet of cloth. They criticize their skill, because it is a poor reflection. This is wrong, that is wrong. In the end, none of those details matter, because what they wanted to convey is gone.
And so, with this in mind, I know where my Art is. I keep it private. It is where I am most vulnerable, and where I am most at home.
It is the world of my imagination. The stories in my head. Sometimes I get them on paper, but usually only fragments. She changes too quickly for me, and I fear failing to bring her out will crush me. But I am doing her a disservice. All she was before is gone.
I cannot write the stories of the worlds gone before. Hopewelt is dead. Amarynth is dead. I’m not the same person and if I try to write those stories, they will be different. My only regret is that I did not write them when I could. I realize now how much they were my struggles, my dreams, and my shattered hopes.
It’s funny realizing how little things effect dramatic changes in my internal landscape. And I understand why it is so important to me to write, even as my fear of failing stands in the way.
My stories are my Art. While what I write, what I might podcast, or any other method of telling will fail in the objective, it will capture a part of Her. A part of my Phoenix.
And maybe, if I’m lucky. I might make a story that attains Art's highest goal. It might reach out and touch someone else.
I don’t really consider myself an artist. I make pretty things. Unique things. And a lot of things with the purpose of selling something else. I’m a designer, an illustrator, a creator, and a story teller, but not an artist. And I usually enjoy what I make. I’m quite rusty in some areas, but generally I am talented and can produce good to fine quality work with an occasional foray into excellence.
I went to college for Fine Arts. For painting to be specific. I thought I would be trained in techniques and skills. What I got was a bunch of professor’s attempts at brainwashing me into thinking Art was what they thought it should be. Some of what they said got in, and then my personality readjusted it. Now, I’m far more ready to see the art in things I wouldn’t before. To appreciate things I wouldn’t before. To even be able to admire and appreciate something I personally don’t really like. That happens more often than you'd think.
But recently, I started thinking about art differently. Not the jumbled elitist mess that they talked about in college. But as something that has a part of the artist in it. Part of the soul. Something she struggles with. Something she loves. Something deeper that needs to get out. It is a way to deal with issues, or a way to whisper to someone else. Art is like a Spelling. She is fleeting. If you do not capture her in the moment she comes, she is gone.
So when an artist takes time to paint. To draw. To write. To make music. They are trying to capture this fleeting part of themselves. It changes as they give it form. Their skill level gets in the way. Life tries to interfere, and in the end, they look at some poor representation of the Art. Like trying to look through a sheet of cloth. They criticize their skill, because it is a poor reflection. This is wrong, that is wrong. In the end, none of those details matter, because what they wanted to convey is gone.
And so, with this in mind, I know where my Art is. I keep it private. It is where I am most vulnerable, and where I am most at home.
It is the world of my imagination. The stories in my head. Sometimes I get them on paper, but usually only fragments. She changes too quickly for me, and I fear failing to bring her out will crush me. But I am doing her a disservice. All she was before is gone.
I cannot write the stories of the worlds gone before. Hopewelt is dead. Amarynth is dead. I’m not the same person and if I try to write those stories, they will be different. My only regret is that I did not write them when I could. I realize now how much they were my struggles, my dreams, and my shattered hopes.
It’s funny realizing how little things effect dramatic changes in my internal landscape. And I understand why it is so important to me to write, even as my fear of failing stands in the way.
My stories are my Art. While what I write, what I might podcast, or any other method of telling will fail in the objective, it will capture a part of Her. A part of my Phoenix.
And maybe, if I’m lucky. I might make a story that attains Art's highest goal. It might reach out and touch someone else.