I’ve always had an affinity for the arts. It has been something that I carry close to my heart. Most things in life are literal and there seldom is any meaning behind them. Art, however is subjective and its significance is up to interpretation. That is what hooked me in: I could make it whatever I wanted.
As a creative child, I would frequently play pretend and I would take pride in my various finger paintings, the very representation of a controlled chaos. I was immersed in my craft-paintings, sketches, and sculptures cluttered my room. I created because it brought me pride. Pride due to the fact that all of my work was paying off.
However, as time passed, I stopped drawing for myself. Instead, I would draw for my teachers, or my friends.
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It pushed me to improve, it pushed me to be my best self. As the years went on I improved and more and more people began to associate art with me. It became my trademark, my identity in a way. But, even though I had improved and finally received the recognition and attention that I had always been so desperate for, I had lost my interest in art as a passion. It became something I did, because I knew how to do it. It brought me no pleasure, and I was simply creating for the sake of others.
However through all the pressure, there was one question that lingered in the back of my mind; who am I without art? As the years passed I slowly placed myself in a box labeled “an artist”. I tried to emulate a person, an archetype, that wasn’t the true me. I was so caught up in this self-made version of myself that I completely lost sight of any other individual personality traits.
Everyone knows Frida Kahlo, Andy Warhol, Vincent Van Gogh. But does anyone know the personality behind the painting. Does anyone care about the individual thoughts behind The Starry Night or the Wounded Deer? I don’t want to be another name. I want people to admire me for more than just my art, I want them to know me for me. Whoever that may