MASTERPIECE IN PROGRESS: OWNING YOUR INNER ARTIST

“Are you an artist?”  I distinctly remember the first time I was “mistaken” for an artist.  I was in my early twenties and walking into a graphic design class I had picked up to support my efforts in a corporate marketing position.  I loved my job and the people, products and projects I worked on every day.  It was creative enough, but I was still in the process of learning who I was.  I had a school record that said I was a good student; I had a short resume that positioned me on the creative side of the business equation, but I would never have had the audacity at that point in my life to call myself an artist.

As I left the registration desk and headed toward the classroom, a woman, presumably a fellow student, looked up from her position of holding up the doorway, smiled, and asked, “Are you an artist?” as she followed me into the room.  I chuckled and immediately said, “No!”, invoking the shield of my cell phone and laptop carrier, pulling them close to my chest.  As the response left my lips, I could feel my heart sink a bit and I wondered why I was so quick to respond that way.  It felt like a lie. Every cell in my body wanted to shout “YES! Yes, I AM an artist!”

It was one of the first times in my life I became aware of someone reflecting back to me what I was radiating from the inside, though I hadn’t yet learned to fully own that expression of myself.  I even remember what I was wearing that day.  My style at that time was sharp and urban, and usually consisted of black, white, and/or gray.  I wore a scarf with geometric designs in the same colors in a modern band around my neck.

“Oh, well, you look like an artist,” she said as she smiled again and headed for a seat in the front of the classroom.  Her words left a slight sense of satisfaction inside me as I headed for my usual seating choice in the back of the room.  Hidden. Safe.

I spent little time that day engaged in the class and much of it trying to answer the questions, “Could I be an artist? What does that mean? What is my medium?” Although I’d experimented with many media from photography to painting to drawing and movement, being an artist - to me - meant having to show your work to others and get paid for it.  That amount of exposure meant opening myself up to critique and criticism, something I had been unwilling to do up to that point.  Maybe that’s why I chose seats in the back of classrooms; maybe it’s why I chose the relationships I did; and maybe it’s why it took the better part of twenty years for me to actually proclaim that yes, I am in fact, an artist.

What being an artist means to me has evolved a great deal over the years.

I’ve participated in art shows, sold and donated many original pieces, explored many facets of my creativity, had my work both praised and criticized.  I’ve also met many fellow artists - some whose talent screams out loud while their minds hold them back from receiving a compliment as mine once did.  Others who boast loudly about their own talents while producing endless yet uninspiring works.

Over the years, I’ve let my creativity flow through many different media.  Writing, painting, singing, teaching, cooking, decorating, curating.  Little by little I came to realize that being an artist was very little about the title I used or the medium I chose, but rather the presence and intention I brought to the process.  Deep exploration of myself revealed more and more artistry at every level I excavated.  Through one of these many facets of self-exploration, I learned about the Native American tradition that says that life is a continuous prayer.  Every thought I think, word I say, and action I take is my request for more of the same.  That every moment of appreciation begets more to appreciate.  This hit home for me.  I began to slow down and find the awe in mundane tasks, the beauty in the messy, and patience where I may have previously been triggered into a reaction.  I began to make living life a form of art.

Awhile back when comparing notes with a friend and fellow artist about the respective pieces we were working on, she shared that she had been attempting to capture the magic of the pacific bay we both lived on when lit by the full moon.  She described her observations of the view with such attention to detail in color, light, and position that I had never considered.  I was intrigued by her process and wanted to experience her point of view.

We agreed to meet later that night at the moon’s peak across the bay to observe its movement.  That meant setting my alarm for 3:45 am.  When it sounded starkly against the silence of the night, I rose with excitement and crept up the two floors to her apartment.  We greeted each other with whispers then sat on her patio in silence - awe, really - of the beauty that unfolded before us.  The bay looked quite different at this time of the night.  By day, it revealed exponential beauty with the ever-changing light, colors, and contrast.  This bay that released a cool breeze with the first light of dawn, then scorched in the setting sun, was now soft and aglow with the shimmering rays of the full moon.  I lost myself in every detail as the moon moved slowly, highlighting then shadowing areas I had not noticed in the light of day.  As the moon beams left the bay I offered silent gratitude for the experience of deep observation and set the intention to bring that level of awareness into my waking hours as well, grateful for the opportunity to grow as an artist and a human.

We are all artists if we choose to be.  In how we dress, express ourselves with hand-written notes, write poems, paint, design, build, clean even.  I couldn’t nurture my inner artist until I was willing to claim it.  And my life became exponentially richer when I decided to not only accept but embrace that part of myself.

Yes, I am an artist.  Are you?

Image by mikaelankelius from Pixabay