I am an artist.
It is always hard to say that. It is hard to accept myself as such. I often consider myself mediocre, or inferior, but I’ve sold artwork for money. People like my artwork, strangers included. I have been complimented frequently on my line work. My work has been called “creepy but cool”. I admit I do have a talent that can’t be gotten from schooling. I even like a lot of my work.
I am an artist.
I am not successful, at least not yet, not by my definition. I need to devote more. More time, more passion, more energy. I need to push. I need to make people LOOK. Make them understand. I am no longer on a 40-hour 5-day schedule, at least for now. Maybe I can take more time to make them see me. I wish that could always be the way, but reality will intrude again and things like health insurance and rent and car payments will send me back to that workweek world.
I am an artist.
My mother used to call me lazy. Some people think it, even if they don’t say it. Art is not work. They don’t understand. I sleep late, but I’m nocturnal. I like nights. I feel creative at night. I would rather draw or create, but to others, that isn’t work. I would rather write a show, but to others, that’s not work. And sometimes, as badly as I want to create, I can’t. The inspiration isn’t there, or anxiety or depression or just a plain old block is in my head, holding me back. That doesn’t mean I’m not trying. In fact, it’s harder. It’s so hard to push through those kind of obstacles.
I am an artist.
Even with the time to promote myself, I have difficulty. I have poor self-esteem. I am painfully introverted. I am uncomfortable talking to people I don’t know. And it’s a hundred times harder when I have to talk about myself. When I have to raise myself up after years of putting myself down. So, to drive myself onward, I keep telling myself, and I keep producing work, even after a bad show, when my drive to create is rock-bottom.
I am an artist.
I am, really. And I am back. Help me to help myself.
azbaelus 