The Artist Who Doesn’t Make Art
I want to be an artist.
The only problem is… I don’t make art.
Not anymore, at least. I did when I was little. Constantly and everywhere and out of anything. But that faded. I was told, quite clearly, that art was a waste of time. It was foolish and that mine wasn’t very good. That I should feel ashamed.
And I did.
I was taught to hide my art.
I got good at it. Good at hiding. Filing down my edges until I was unrecognizable even to myself.
I stopped making art.
But if that’s part of who you are and how you see the world it never really goes away, does it? Shame makes for a powerful prison but deep down you know this isn’t home.
So how do you go home?
I feel like I’ve tried everything—therapy, self-development work, inspirational quotes on my mirror, all those motivational books you’re supposed to read—everything but… making art.
Because I’m afraid. Because it feels hard and I don’t want more hard.
I keep waiting for something to click, to wake up feeling magically different and energized and ready to make all-the-things. I’m waiting for it to feel easy. Natural.
As you can imagine, I’ve been waiting a heck of a long time.
So what do you do?
All signs point to show up and do the work anyways. Consistently and with no mind to metrics.
That’s why I’ve committed to this exercise of blogging every weekday morning for the rest of the year. I’m not doing this because I’m no longer scared, I’m doing this because I’ve found somewhere to put the fear.
That’s the (easier said than done) secret.
“Katie’s happy faces — aged 2”
Thanks to my Mum for keeping my art safe and for always calling me an artist.