Am I Pained Enough to be an Artist?

Two things have kept me from pursuing my writing and art for two decades.

First, I never thought I had enough angst to be a real artist.  It's true.  Most of my artist friends are in a constant state of upheaval.  They have relationship issues, self-esteem issues, family conflicts and they always dress so that there is no question that they are artsy in some me way.  I don't think I'm troubled enough.  When I met the Charge Scenic Artist I was to train under in our theatre department years ago, he looked at me, paused and then said "you're going to be my normal one."  I didn't get it at first, but I did soon after.  I look like a normal American girl.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing that's going to make anyone take notice.  The times I've done more, it felt awkward.  It wasn't me.

Second, I never thought I had anything to say.  Scenic artists are really reproduction artists.  We take someone else's design and turn it in to a much bigger version.  Yes, we add our own techniques and style, but mainly we are reproducing someone else's vision.  And I'm pretty good at it.  But, It is not MY  voice.  And even when I felt like I did have something to say, as an artist or a writer, I didn't think it was just so fascinating that I needed to throw it out there onto the World Wide Web.  I figured people would wonder why I ever thought it was worth making public.

I know there is so much more to being a writer or an artist than the way you look, or whether or not someone else will find what you do interesting,  I suppose to make money at it, someone has to find it interesting.  But artists create art.  Writers write.  Irregardless of who may or may not want to see it.  Even if nobody ever sees anything you do. To think differently would be like asking the color red to look a little more blue because you like blue better.  Red is just red.  If it were more blue, then it wouldn't be red.  Writers write.  It's who we are.  It's who I am.  And, I finally think I have my own voice.

Sorting Out My Story....

Do you remember that scene in the movie “Searching for Bobby Fischer” in which he is staring at the chess board trying to decide his next move, and he remembers his coach saying something about how he needs to see the ending and how he will get there before he makes his next move?  That’s how I feel about this book.  I keep writing down these bits and pieces of my story because I feel so compelled to write them.  But I can’t figure out why it needs to be written down.  I feel like I’m staring at a chess board and all the pieces are there, although perhaps scattered a little across the board and not perfectly lined up.  It isn’t random, because I put them there.  I just can’t figure out why I put them there and where they are supposed to wind up so that there is some kind of successful end result.  Sometimes I feel like the king and the goal is to protect myself and make sure I win.  But mostly I feel like little Bobby Fischer staring down at my life knowing that just a handful of correct moves will bring victory.  If only I could figure it out.  I love that scene in the movie.  I love the camera as it’s focused on his face trying to make sense of the pieces.  I love as it shifts from the pieces being in focus to his face as it clicks in his mind, and you see hope and adrenaline as he realizes how to win.  He lifts his head, his mind clear with the answer, solidifies his plan, and finishes the game.  Victory.  I’m hoping that moment of clarity will come.  And more importantly, I’m hoping when it does come, I will have the courage to finish.