I've got beauty by the throat so she can't sing a note
Those who know me well would probably not characterize me as a risk-averse person. I’ve traveled to third-world countries alone, accepted job offers that require major life upheaval, and taken on high-responsibility work that I didn’t know how to do. I enjoy a challenge. And I’m pretty confident that I can step up and succeed in most situations.
But I have this one little area of weakness.
I’m afraid to be an artist.
I don’t mean just making art. I can do that. I mean making lots of it and then showing it to people, who will hopefully buy it. I mean really being an artist. A working artist.
Just writing about it makes my temple sweat.
You see, the stuff that tests my brain… well, it just doesn’t scare me. I know I have a good brain. And even if some people happen to disagree with the things my brain comes up with, well… so what? Lots of people make a living by disagreeing with other people.
But if people don’t like the art I produce, that means I can’t make a living as an artist. It’s pretty black and white. People either like art enough to pay for it, or they think it sucks. You can’t talk or charm your way into acceptance.
So what I’m really saying is, it’s not that I’m afraid of doing art.
In fact, there’s nothing I love doing more.
I’m just afraid of failure.
How pedestrian.
~~
When I think about my ideal life, it always starts with me in my art studio, covered in paint, hair up in a messy bun. Stacks of canvasses surround me. There are boxes filled cool stuff that will one day make its way into fascinating multi-media projects. Hunks of clay sit in piles. A busy kiln fumes. If I had my way, I’d spend most of my time in this kind of environment. Getting my hands dirty making things. Emptying my soul out onto a blank slate.
But I have a mortgage and I need to eat. My animals need kibble and my husband is currently unemployed! This mean I must work like a regular person.
At least for right now.
~~
Not so long ago, I went through a long hiatus from making art. About ten years.
There were two or three periods in that time during which I would crank out a few creative things, and afterwards I would always say to myself: why the hell don’t I do this more often! But then another couple of years would go by before I’d make anything else.
I used to say it was because I was too busy.
Too tired. Too lazy.
I’d complain that I didn’t have enough space.
But the real reason I didn’t regularly create art was because as much as I loved doing it in the moment - as much as it made me feel connected to my true spirit - it also made me sad. Sad because every time I picked up a paintbrush or thrust my fingers into clay, it was a depressing reminder that I wasn’t living my dream.
So I would finish whatever I started (or sometimes abandon it altogether) and then put everything away.
None of this was conscious. In fact, I didn’t realize the root of my art-avoidance until last year. It was a powerful epiphany that made me cry. It also compelled me to accept that art doesn’t need to be all or nothing in my life. That I can work a regular job and create art without exploding into a million lugubrious pieces of self-pity and regret.
~~
So I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the studio these days. And most of the time I’m delighted and satisfied with the mere fact that I’m doing again.
I especially love that perfect moment of inspiration when suddenly I know exactly how it’s going to turn out. The wheels click and my creative energy flows and everything comes together. Sometimes I get so excited by this moment that I physically hop around with giddy anticipation.
And then there’s the still and tranquil space I fill when working. Moving the clay, sweeping the brush. It’s exquisite. My mind is focused, my thoughts intent. Nothing else gets in. I am rapt, absorbed, captivated.
It’s healing.
My whole life I’ve been happy just to achieve that state. And most of the time I think if I can just create on a regular basis, then I will have accomplished something good.
~~
But a few weeks ago I hosted a party with about 20 people - most of them colleagues - during which I answered a continuous string of questions about my art (it hangs throughout our house).
They liked it.
You should sell this stuff!
Those birds are amazing!
You did that? No WAY. Really?
Why aren’t you doing this for a living?
You’re so talented!
(Right now, as my sister is reading this, she’s thinking… well DUH)
Ahem.
I know.
It’s just so scary, that’s all. Scary like being naked in front of strangers. And not just any kind of naked. The most vulnerable, stark, soul-baring nakedness there is.
Um, excuse me… uh… so, I made this thing. Do you like it?
It just seems so impossible.
~~
So here is my plan.
I will spend one year devoted to creating art during every spare moment.
No more excuses.
I have space, I have ideas, I have money to buy materials.
I have support.
I will make a collection.
And then I will figure out how to show it to people.
It can be done.