Truth Be Told?

Truth be told, in this moment, I don’t know what being an artist means to me. At first I thought it was a grand quest to be seen, appreciated, and accepted through shared experiences. I believed my story, my art, my determination would be enough to feel connected to something greater. The death of my partner, my childhood abuse, and the physical disabilities had to mean something. Right? Grief, trauma, an unbearable change inspired the art. But truth be told, it's not why I am an artist. It is just part of the greater story. A story still being actively written.

We all go through hardship. I choose to create art while I experience it all. To process. To learn. To accept. To transform pain into something else. That being said, I have no idea why I am an artist, why paint and canvas give me ease and a purpose I can’t fully describe.

Maybe it’s human nature that I haven’t lost? To create gives me a sense of understanding of this world. Without my own perspective, I am forced to consume what someone else hands me…and coming from a family of abuse, I’ve learned not all people are well-intentioned for my own growth. Some want you to stay small, scared, unsure, doubtful, numb, and distracted.

Creating art is how I have survived my own existence. I look around, and there is a great interest in defining who is an “artist” and who is not…by rules typically made by those who don’t make art, which is frustrating.

So, I don’t know what kind of artist I am or will be, or how others view it all - and truth be told - I am starting not to care. It matters more to me to create my art than to get approval or recognition. Maybe one day I will find the reason why I was born an artist. But for now, I am becoming.