I’m not an artist. I have an artist.
One of the most liberating things I have ever learned, is not that I am an artist, but that I have an artist.
That means that everything that I am and make doesn’t have to be art, and I or anyone else also can’t force or command art out of me.
I have an artist, a muse, inspiration, magic that works inside of me and begs to be tended to, played with and exercised daily.
Having an artist makes sense as an artist, because I have always believed that everyone has the ability to create, they have an artist.
It’s a great sadness that you have had a person or moment or scar that told you that your art is not art. That those lines and shapes and textures are not beautiful or nothing much or not worthy of a second glance or value. That those ideas are cute and fun but nothing more, that those thoughts in your head could never deem numbers or hold weight.
They weighed you down. Strapped your wings to the ground, put your artist in a corner, put them to sleep to join their silenced and forgotten artists. Can you even hear your artist anymore?
We have all had those moments. We tucked in our wings, put on a face, told our artist to hush, playtime is over. And our artist listened and sat down.
But our artist is still in there. Waiting and willing, just wanting to play. To create, to be. Your mind, your soul, your colorful crazy daydreams. Your artist wants to show you, you, with vision you cannot see.
I was told that my artist will always show up and “great” “beautiful” “perfect” can’t be expected. No, don’t set that heavy bar upon her head. She is precious.
But if I provide the quantity.
If I write and write and dabble and mold and fold and braid and shade and type and sketch and think and babble and skip and sing and dance like mad. Then maybe, she might come to play, and well, then is when art we shall make.
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