Do you remember the story of Pinocchio? The wooden puppet whose nose grew when he told a lie and who had but one wish; to be a “real boy”?
I am Pinocchio. Though I am not a puppet and my nose remains the same size regardless of anything I say I have always had but one wish; to be “real”.
No, not a real boy or a real person. I’m a woman and a human. C’mon. I may be nuts but I’m not so far out there that I don’t think I’m human.
What I’ve always wanted, my one wish (that’s a lie. I have a lot of wishes; this is just one of the big ones) has been to be a “real artist”.
I was sitting at my little table looking at my supplies spread out in front of me. They are nothing special; inexpensive student grade materials. I was looking at them and at something I’d painted when it hit me.
My wish to be a real artist? I’ve ALWAYS been a real artist. Always, always, always.
I have struggled for many years to feel comfortable in thinking of myself as or referring to myself as an artist. It felt presumptuous to think of myself or refer to myself as such a marvelous thing. When anyone would insist that I was an artist I would say that no, I was not. I was just someone who was creative.
There is no art without some form of creativity!
There is art that lacks in connection. A friend recently told me that they had seen beautiful photography that utilized all the right techniques to create stunning images. However the photography, though lovely, failed to connect.
Contrary to this my friend shared that they had seen photography that was perhaps not as precise. A little less visually striking. What it lacked in the correct exposure, saturation, etc it more than made up for in its ability to connect and to draw you in. That, my friend, is true art.
My aim has always been to first and foremost express myself; to release my need to create, to say what I couldn’t say, to get all the things that are inside of me out of me. Following that my goal has been enjoyment. I enjoy creating. I enjoy expressing myself, freeing my drive to make, and giving my soul the room it needs to dance.
My other drive is connection. I’m not good at talking to people. I’m not good at socializing. I’m not good at maintaining relationships. I am not a social butterfly. I am a social rock. I am stand offish and aloof. I am shy and reserved.
With the things I make, though? I can connect with them. I connect with them much like Whitman’s noiseless, patient spider with its gossamer filaments.
It is a wondrous thing to realize that I have always been that which I have longed to be.
My name is Samantha. I am an artist.
Until next time,