The need to create art fell upon me like a fever last week.
I’ve learned, over the years, that the more I stifle this sudden urge to paint and draw and cut and glue, the stronger that urge becomes. It takes over my body. My mind continues making plans and setting goals, but my hand scribbles figures and forms.
So I’ve been giving in. Following every whim. Layering paint onto paper. Cutting out shapes, pouring ink and letting it dribble down the page.
The work is piling up around me and I’m not sure what to do with it. I’ve considered scanning some of my better pieces and selling them on Etsy for ten or twenty bucks apiece. It would a good way to reduce the clutter, and it would be nice to have the validation of sales.
The last time I thought about creating an Etsy store, though, I convinced myself that I needed to photograph the collages framed, matted and hanging on a wall. A nice wall, with natural lighting and a chair and an end table nearby. And then, of course, I never did.
Why? To protect myself from failure? To stop myself from opening that Etsy store and getting zero sales and then using the experience as a stick to beat myself with?
I don’t know. But I’m frustrated that I’ve let my perfectionism get in the way for so long. I’m ready to say, “Fuck it” and just start treating the whole thing like a grand adventure.
My work doesn't have a recognizable style yet. I've read that that's the difference between a professional artist and an amateur—the professional has a recognizable body of work, with traits that have been honed over time. But becoming a professional artist has never been one of my goals. My goals are to stave off depression, to crack myself open and let the giddy energy of creation in. To receive.
In those ways, I guess, I'm a success.