Truth: An artist comprehends no separation between art and life.
But recently I learned that I subconsciously regard aspects of my art as separate.
I have told myself this: Writing is not painting. But writing is most definitely art.
In this way…
When I decided to take the leap of faith and become a painter, I let go of others’ judgment and my worry. You know, that little voice that wants to please and seeks praise? I threw that out the window. It does not help the artistic process. Truth: I have an unique artistic voice that is not for everyone and that is the nature of art.
My paintings touch people and some people profoundly. I focus on this. When I paint for someone or some theme, I do my best to put their skin on and see the world from their perspective. The painting should be profound for that person or theme. If it touches more people in the process, that is a lovely side effect.
Paintings are an expression that creates meaning, relationships, and ultimately expand our understanding of life. Mine will do that for a few or many. But not all. Ok. I accept this and let go of worry.
When I handed “A Healing Place 2” off to my client, she stood in her living room and announced that she was going to read the story card aloud to her daughter and husband.
“Ack!” I choked and covered my face. I had a mini-panic attack right there. I wanted to run.
It was a Moment of Truth. A Teachable Moment.
Here on this blog and in all my marketing attempts I have exposed (one aspect of) my artistic soul in a gallery of public paintings and processes. I have no panic attacks. It is a struggle but ultimately I trust myself here.
But in that moment I could not listen to someone pronounce my words. I wring heartache into writing. I did not want to hear it and be faced with a critique.
Some damage, huh?
Writing is a cracked and bleeding medium for me. This is a revelation. I have been manipulating words and hiding behind the painting, a coward. Writing and I have a long history, longer than painting, but before I knew how to protect myself from all the real, imagined and self critics. It is my first love saturated with juvenile expectations and painful miscomprehensions. It is riddled. A puzzle of meaning and pain.
I need to get over it. If there is something my painting can teach my writing, this is it.
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