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.

I'm a Writer Because it's Cheap and Easy

I turned forty-one this year, forty-two is fast approaching and it’s been bothering me.  Actually, I’ve been annoyed since turning forty, and probably the frustration started creeping in slowly along about thirty-eight.  It’s not what you might think, though.  I’m not thrilled with the aging process, but a few grey hairs and some creases on my face are the least of my concerns.  I heard someone say once that everyone wants to live forever, but nobody wants to get old, and of course, those two things don’t live in harmony.  I do want to live a long life, and I don’t mind the physical changes as much as you might think.  It’s the lack of progress that really sticks in my craw.

I made one goal this year for the new year.  I wanted to be a finisher.  All my life I’ve dabbled here and there and started new project after new project.  I come up with all these fun, cool ideas and I get so excited to start, but somewhere not too far into it, I fizzle.  I realize how much work it will really take, and I lose the spark, or the drive, or the confidence, or all three.  I get overwhelmed at what it might take to accomplish that goal, and I throw in the towel.  Or maybe I don’t throw it in—maybe what I really do is fold it up and set it aside because I’ve convinced myself that I will be returning to finish that project some day.  Yeah, right.  I think that’s part of my frustration, too—I’m not honest with myself.  I don’t finish things and I’m not even honest with myself about why.  I think I’m lazy, too.  I look at what it will take to finish what I’ve started (because I do dream big) and I sigh and tell myself that nobody is going to pay attention to me or like what I’ve created, and so instead of pushing forward, I get lazy and move on to something I think is easier.  I don’t finish things, I’m not honest with myself and I’m lazy.  Yeah, that about sums it up.

It’s part of the reason I wanted to write.  I thought, hey it’s cheap, it’s easy and I can do it in my spare time with nothing but my computer and my creativity, because of all the flaws I do recognize about myself, I also think I am funny and creative and a decent writer.  I can make people laugh.  I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I have a way of wording things that is engaging.  So why not write?

I’ll tell you why.  Because it’s not easy.

I am an artist, although I don’t think I am an artist in the true sense of the word.  I’m not the kind of artist that is overly pained and gathering inspiration for a new modern sculpture from a bag of snow peas or a pile of trash that looks like Jesus.  I don’t sketch every day.  I haven’t really even had a real art class.  I have a theatre degree and have worked as a scenic artist and designer here and there, but nothing major.  Don’t bother Googling me, as you will not find much.  I’m small potatoes.  But I love art and I am very visual and hands on, and am happiest when I’m creating something new.
But back to the writing.  I have wanted to write for a very long time, but never thought I had anything to say.  The same is true of my art.  I love to create things, but more practical things.  Functional art.  I like functional things that are made in a cool way.  I’ve wanted to create art for a very long time, too, but again, I never felt I had something to say in my art.  I feel like being an artist means you are expressing something, and I just couldn’t do that.  I never thought I had enough story to share, or certainly not enough meaning behind that story to make it interesting to anyone besides me.  For some reason, turning forty changed that.

I’ve been caught up in reflection these last few years.  I’ve become even more nostalgic than I was, and I’m a pretty sentimental person, so that’s saying a lot.  I’ve been sorting through my frustrations with my lack of progress, and trying to understand why it is that I don’t finish things.  Why don’t I have the confidence and the determination to just push forward.  I read an old Chinese proverb recently that said “I dreamed a thousand new paths…I woke and walked my old one.”  It sunk deep in my soul, and I decided that it was time.

I do have something to say, but honestly, as I begin this book, I don’t know what that message is.  All I know is that it is bubbling to the surface in the form of thousands of memories that haunt my mind.  They are relentless.  They are loud and they wake me in the middle of the night with pushy, unrelenting pokes and jabs and, occasionally, a more gentle shake so they can remind me of something I’ve never forgotten.  I don’t know what they each mean to my story, but I do recognize that if they are this determined to be heard, then they must be trying to tell me something.  So, I decided to write them down as they came to me, and when I had more time, I would gather up all the pieces to this great puzzle and put them together to see the final picture.  I’m curious as to what it will be.  I hope it’s something  beautiful.

(I wrote this two years ago, and have made a lot of progress on what I call "the book".  I'm in the piecing it together phase, and filling in the gaps, since I just wrote down these memories as they happened, not in any order and not connected...yet.)