Today, many years have been ripped from the calendar of my life, and I'm not a tattoo artist. I don't even have a tattoo myself. I'm not sad I changed my mind about my profession, but I am sad that I let my urge to draw fall away and wither. Not that it happened immediately. I had a guardian who was into drawing and I liked to work with her. But I must confess I was daunted by the difference in our talents (natural on one hand since she was in her 40's and I was 11). Then later, my housemother, Robin, stirred the embers a bit more with her portfolio, but she also had stories to tell of how difficult it was to make one's living as an artist (she knew; she had a degree). It wasn't that she deliberately discouraged me; she was just helping me take a realistic view of the field. Since I was in my late teens and needing to start thinking more seriously about the whole "when I grow up" thing, I took her words to heart, along with a feeling that I'm not good anyway (or at least nowhere near any of the best--in hindsight, I see this as probably the first time I loosened my hold on something because I was afraid of failing, though it was a gradual thing spread insidiously over the years), and let the silly fancies go for good.
However, a few years down the line at uni, I needed an elective and chose Drawing 101. I learned quite a bit, did some decent works, and got the itch back. But that same ol' you'll-never-make-a-living-at-this fear kept me from more than intermittent dabbling. And that's okay, I guess. Only, it's not. Art was my first love. It used to impassion me. Until I learned that passions were synonymous with weakness. Again, this is all hindsight and speculation, but I feel like I started sabotaging myself, killing that drive with criticism and pride, until I was convinced I can't be passionate about anything and without passion, what is the point of doing something? If you don't have some fierce, internal, gut-hooked drive to do something, then you must not really be meant to do it.
Another word for it is obsession, I guess, and I never had that pull (or did I just get too good at ignoring it?) to do something specific with my life. And so I drift. Yes, I write, but not only is that the equivalent of my feeling about art, it is a post for another time.
Nigh on a week has passed since we met the artist and I found out I could take lessons with him. A week gone since I had The Idea for a series of paintings, and I've only gathered some treasures for it but haven't started anything. Instead, I sit here and wonder where the passion for it is. I comfort myself with a load of malarkey that says, "You have a commitment to
novel_in_90; once you've fulfilled that, then you can throw yourself into the art." Like I said, malarkey. I know from experience that once I am in an artistic mindset, I start to see things with an eye to shading, color, perspective, light. Like writing or any other artistic endeavor, creativity engenders creativity.
I think I'm going to shut up now, unplug myself from the net and this pc addiction, and put my brushes where my fingers are...
However, a few years down the line at uni, I needed an elective and chose Drawing 101. I learned quite a bit, did some decent works, and got the itch back. But that same ol' you'll-never-make-a-living-at-this fear kept me from more than intermittent dabbling. And that's okay, I guess. Only, it's not. Art was my first love. It used to impassion me. Until I learned that passions were synonymous with weakness. Again, this is all hindsight and speculation, but I feel like I started sabotaging myself, killing that drive with criticism and pride, until I was convinced I can't be passionate about anything and without passion, what is the point of doing something? If you don't have some fierce, internal, gut-hooked drive to do something, then you must not really be meant to do it.
Another word for it is obsession, I guess, and I never had that pull (or did I just get too good at ignoring it?) to do something specific with my life. And so I drift. Yes, I write, but not only is that the equivalent of my feeling about art, it is a post for another time.
Nigh on a week has passed since we met the artist and I found out I could take lessons with him. A week gone since I had The Idea for a series of paintings, and I've only gathered some treasures for it but haven't started anything. Instead, I sit here and wonder where the passion for it is. I comfort myself with a load of malarkey that says, "You have a commitment to
novel_in_90; once you've fulfilled that, then you can throw yourself into the art." Like I said, malarkey. I know from experience that once I am in an artistic mindset, I start to see things with an eye to shading, color, perspective, light. Like writing or any other artistic endeavor, creativity engenders creativity. I think I'm going to shut up now, unplug myself from the net and this pc addiction, and put my brushes where my fingers are...
ETA: I called the artist and set up a lesson for Saturday. Go me.
