It took over 50 times of telling myself “this is going weekend when I’m finally going to spend at least 3 hours to sit and draw,” and the same number of times realizing that Sunday night has crept up on me and I again hadn’t made the time to do it. I can easily blame it on the fact that it’s hard to get shit done when you don’t have any set deadlines. Or that it’s difficult to be creative when you don’t have any sort of limitation to narrow the scope of the project.
It’s also that I have these stupid insecurity demons that are doing a good job of paralyzing me from getting back into it on my own. When I realized this, I knew I had to take a class if I wanted to make art again. Deadlines and lesson assignments are helpful, but what I really need is the hand-holding. That, in addition to thoughtful criticism…Not much makes me feel like my work is being valued than when it’s being criticized.
In high school I was an art freak. I painted or danced every day after school, inhaled my Art History readings, and spent many weekends flipping through pages of art books at a 24-hour bookstore. In awe of Cézanne’s luscious colors, the expressive tones of Titian, or the trippy monsters of Hieronymus Bosch’s hell. Art was my refuge. I believed being an artist was the most courageous, honest, and beautiful way of living and I wanted to embody it. For various reasons though, I ended up becoming disillusioned by the idea and value of Art and decided I needed to understand the world better if I’m ever able to make things that are honest and bold. So… I threw myself into studying politics and working on social justice.
But my thinking about it starting to shift again and I now want to try pairing these disciplines together. It’s finally time.