I finally started writing about my drawings. Building things in my head before laying them down on paper. Everything is a possible source of inspiration. I am not afraid to take things others have done anymore, to mix them in with my ideas and come up with something that is in part mine, in part, others’.
It’s complicated, of course. Being an artist means putting yourself out there constantly, deciding that what you have to offer is worth it – to yourself, to others.
Art is personal: a bit of your soul on a big white canvas. A stain that represents you, that breathes for you, that has a life of its own. You hope that others will understand, that they’ll interpret things right. But who cares: as long as they look at it, are not indifferent… what else could you ask for?
The art flows out of you, feelings compel you to pick up your brushes and your pens, to draw lines and make dots. It’s impossible to resist: everything has a meaning, a goal, a certain logic after all. This logic only exists for you, but it’s real, it pushes, pulls, taunts, it wants to explode, exist! When it finally takes shape on a piece of paper, on canvas, on cardboard even…everything seems better. You can breathe, you feel your heart slow, your emotions wind down.
I can now look at my paintings and feel like I get what I did, understand where I’m coming from. I like what’s inside of me. I like myself enough to be able to translate it to a new medium. I even want to share it.
I see things differently, I’m on the lookout, hunting for inspiration. I already have my ideas, I need to flesh them out. My eyes are open to new things. Just like when you learn a new word, it suddenly appears everywhere: anything is potentially usable, useful in one of my works. My vision of things changes. I like who I am, I become more selfish, more in line with who I wish to become.
It feels nice.
It doesn’t make anything easier, but I truly believe I can make it. Having faith in yourself changes things.
I sweat optimism and hope. I feed on the American Dream. I’m fighting myself, my guilt of being broke and almost too old for it to be acceptable, I’m fighting the system and my ego.
It’s exhausting to be that way: optimism’s best friend is serious pessimism. Fear of wasting my time, my energy, to be a good for nothing – except throwing my parents’ money out the window. The highs are high, they’ve never been so high. The lows are…very low. Too low. They don’t last long fortunately. Short lived and and draining, they come and go like heavy rain showers.
Oh well. I’m moving forward regardless. No regrets, no sad looks for the past. I chose to live my life like that…I’m ok with it! And I’m having so much fun. It’s so easy to get back into gear, to start the engine up again after the storm when you know that what you’re doing is precisely what you want to be doing. When there’s nothing between the dream and you.
So I tape paper to the wall, paint on it. I take my pen and make hands out of dots. I draw old and young people. I have a theme, a goal, a purpose.
I’ll see! As long as I try, it can only lead me somewhere.