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I love art, but...
Oct. 26th, 2014 04:56 pmI had a sort of epiphany this afternoon, about what I like or love, and what I don't.
It was exciting yesterday to think about doing an art journal again. I went to bed last night planning to start right in today. And after some delays I did. But I got to wondering, about halfway there, was this something I really wanted to do? I do, and yet... As soon as one does any kind of artwork, the thought seems to pop into one's head, or maybe others put it there: now what do I do with this? Because I have this sort of attitude that there is a lot of fine art work out there and I don't really need to add my mess to it. I love to look at and appreciate and admire artwork, but the doing, well, I feel more like a kid playing with crayons when I actually do it. It's relaxing as long as I don't expect too much, and it's a form of expression that complements all the writing I do. I'm not always horrible at it, so I do get some satisfaction out of the end result, though I don't think I've ever had the thought that it was anything that might sell. Usually I don't even want to hang it on my own wall.
So, why am I doing this? And do I want to have artwork, watercolor, drawings as things that I identify with? And do I want to keep cluttering my world with them?
At heart, I'm a writer. I love writing fiction, in a passionate way, a way that I can't comfortably escape from even when I want to. The years that I don't write fiction of any kind are usually my heaviest journaling years, when I scribble reams of journal pages. I have certainly had my disappointments with writing, in fact I've gotten pretty depressed about it, but I realize now that's also a symptom of my passion for it. I can't imagine getting depressed over not being able to sell a drawing or painting of mine. I would think, of course! Who would want to buy that dribble? It's just for fun, a way of expressing myself. But no one wanting to buy my writing can throw me into a deep depression. Yet even that is because I started thinking of it as something that must make me money instead of something that I simply love to do. When I'm doing it, simply out of the love of doing it, I'm the happiest I've ever known myself to be.
I am a writer.
I really need to stop tellling myself I'm not. That's just cruel.
It was exciting yesterday to think about doing an art journal again. I went to bed last night planning to start right in today. And after some delays I did. But I got to wondering, about halfway there, was this something I really wanted to do? I do, and yet... As soon as one does any kind of artwork, the thought seems to pop into one's head, or maybe others put it there: now what do I do with this? Because I have this sort of attitude that there is a lot of fine art work out there and I don't really need to add my mess to it. I love to look at and appreciate and admire artwork, but the doing, well, I feel more like a kid playing with crayons when I actually do it. It's relaxing as long as I don't expect too much, and it's a form of expression that complements all the writing I do. I'm not always horrible at it, so I do get some satisfaction out of the end result, though I don't think I've ever had the thought that it was anything that might sell. Usually I don't even want to hang it on my own wall.
So, why am I doing this? And do I want to have artwork, watercolor, drawings as things that I identify with? And do I want to keep cluttering my world with them?
At heart, I'm a writer. I love writing fiction, in a passionate way, a way that I can't comfortably escape from even when I want to. The years that I don't write fiction of any kind are usually my heaviest journaling years, when I scribble reams of journal pages. I have certainly had my disappointments with writing, in fact I've gotten pretty depressed about it, but I realize now that's also a symptom of my passion for it. I can't imagine getting depressed over not being able to sell a drawing or painting of mine. I would think, of course! Who would want to buy that dribble? It's just for fun, a way of expressing myself. But no one wanting to buy my writing can throw me into a deep depression. Yet even that is because I started thinking of it as something that must make me money instead of something that I simply love to do. When I'm doing it, simply out of the love of doing it, I'm the happiest I've ever known myself to be.
I am a writer.
I really need to stop tellling myself I'm not. That's just cruel.
