halfshadows

Despite writing volumes on a near daily basis in my personal journal, I’ve found it extremely difficult to even think about really trying to make an effort to blog. Thus the 2 half-hearted posts followed by more than a year of silence.

First of all, I have something against the word itself that I can’t justify or logically explain. It’s an unfortunate association, but I  can’t help thinking a “blog” is just a brown log, and something that should be put in a proper receptacle and not publicly displayed at all. No matter how many times I hear the word, I always think of poop.

Secondly, I’m having a hard time seeing the whole idea of writing here in a positive way. I can’t help but write extremely personally; it’s what I do. The idea of being commodifying or entertaining in my writing is just too hard and too unpleasant. And I have the awareness to know that when I sit in front of the WordPress Add New Post screen, I am simply spilling my thoughts in a very messy, unpleasant way. Like hanging dirty laundry. And yet I still feel compelled to write. The burden of being so analytical is that it’s just always there….the constant thinking.

I recently came across a podcast in which someone was talking about the different kinds of ADD, and the symptoms of one particular kind struck a resonance with me. Is it at all possible that I have ADD? At first this idea seemed ridiculous. Aren’t all ADD types the kinds of people who are constantly talking and flitting around? That’s the stereotype and anyone who knows me, knows that’s not me at all. And yet, I have, many times, incredibly frustrating attention problems. Not the kind where I can’t pay attention, but the kind where I pay waaaaaaay too much attention to the wrong thing. And I’m not just talking about internet surfing. It’s more of an effect of not being able to figure out what’s most important at any given moment. I can’t see the forest, only this one tree. Or rather, only this knot on this patch of bark on this one tree. And as much as I battle with this, the thought that I am approaching this issue the wrong way and that maybe there is a legitimate and more effective treatment gives me a modicum of hope. I am determined to see an expert about it.

I feel I should offer some summary of what I’ve been doing during this silence. The entire purpose of writing here, after all, is to provide a voice (even if it’s a tiny voice that no one can hear) which expresses my experience as an artist, no matter how successful or unsuccessful I feel at the time in the execution of the work itself. So, last year…

Last year was a good year for my artistic growth. I entered and fell in love with the world of ceramics and pottery, even to the point of thinking of changing my major to sculpture. I also started a fulltime employment working as a web designer for the school I’m attending. It’s a job which I, so far, really truly enjoy, even if it’s not making art all day. Sadly, since the start of this year, I have to admit that I haven’t made much art. I think it’s mostly due to the fact that I am not in classes and being forced to make art. It’s hard to admit, but it’s really not something that I fall into easily.

This year so far I’ve been more focused on getting in shape physically and also getting personally organized. I wish it were possible to do all four at the same time: work, get in shape, get organized, make art. It probably is possible, in fact, I just haven’t figured out how to yet.

I’ve been having tons and tons of ideas for art, though, and I’ve been being very careful to write everything down. I feel that once I do figure out how to make room for art again in my daily routine along with the other things that are important to me, wonderful things will be made manifest. So much potential energy…it has to go somewhere.

Sometimes I think it would make all the difference in the world to have one person look me deeply in the eyes and tell me, with all confidence and faith that I am capable of what I have set out to do. And I wonder, would this make the difference that I think it would? I am ashamed of this secret wish, because it is so obviously insecure and superficial. Surely “being” comes from within. Mentally, I recognize this. More deeply, I’m obviously not there yet.

Based on conversations with creative friends, I surmise that anyone in any kind of honest artistic pursuit will at some point battle deeply with their insecurities, both personal and artistic. Maybe one doesn’t have to be a balls-to-the-wall Übermensch to be a great artist. It must help, though.

Despite my lack of emotional confidence in my artistic potential (something I am trying to remedy), I have certainly willed myself to invest in this dream. I have taken the biggest gamble. After failing for years to suppress my impractical artistic aspirations, when I turned 30, I made a conscious and momentous decision to hesitate no further and to boldly leap in the direction of my dreams. I did not have a plan of how to make this happen. I simply started making small decisions daily that seemed like they might be in the right direction. One of the decisions was to finally go to college (I hadn’t yet been) and to study painting. I know from personal experience that, when it comes to art, I am not one of those people who can independently blaze their own path. Is that another shameful admission? Couldn’t this be a sign that I am not a true artist? Regardless, I decided I needed help. And so here I am, enrolled in school, getting into some pretty hefty debt, all based on the slim possibility that one day I may be a great working artist and that this investment will be worth it. When I try to comprehend the potential consequences of this risk fully, I am almost suffocated by doubt and fear. This is not the “safe” route. Surely, I don’t have what it takes and I should quit now, before I get in any further.

Meanwhile, it turns out that deciding to live your dreams is not a leap. Most days, it’s more like scaling a cliff. Each bloody inch, a battle for your life. In order to just pay my daily living expenses I work upwards of 80 hours a week while not in class and at least 40 during a full-time semester. Yet, somehow, I’m entering my second year at school and I’ve managed so far to not quit. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’m holding nothing back. All my eggs in one teetering basket.

What happens if I fail? It’s a question I am so fearful of, that I really haven’t ventured past its taunting punctuation. Maybe I should. Maybe a thorough examination of the boundaries of failure is what must come next. After all, it is always what is left to the imagination that is the most terrible.

I am 33 years old. As long as I can remember I have wanted to be an artist. For many years I put off this dream as impractical and ridiculous and even though, finally enrolled in art school studying painting, I am closer now than I have ever been, this dream still seems like a far-fetched fancy.

I tell myself so many things throughout the course of daily life…that things will get easier, that I will get in better shape, that I will get more sleep, that I will make more money, that I will have closer friends, that one day I will be a mother, and I try to believe that these things are reassuring, but there is one possibility that is conspicuously absent:

I will be an artist.

And I must finally concede that I simply don’t believe it. I don’t know yet why this is. I do know that I can never become that which I do not believe myself capable of. And yet, I can’t think of anything that my heart yearns for more.

Realizing the impossibility of my Gordian thoughts, I have decided to write and see where it takes me. One could argue that thinking and writing are equally useless, but it’s not true. Writing has traction. Writing leaves footprints. Writing makes clear what thinking only grasps at. In the course of this journal, I intend to draw as well as write. My hope is that in this combination of writing, drawing, and the honesty born of unavoidably tedious self-scrutiny (I apologize in advance), maybe something will surface. Maybe that something will be an artist.