The Artist Identity [crisis?]
The identity of being an artist has always been a sort of elusive shiny object to me.
Itβs been something I aspire to, and a vibe Iβve get inspired by. Yet never a title I can fully own for myself, even after years of creating beauty. We can talk about worthiness later, mmmk?
Back to the Artist identityβ¦
My soul comes alive when I walk into somebody elseβs creative space. The creative process is so raw and intimate, and as consumers of art we often only get to marvel at the final piece.
Whenever I get the honor of stepping into someoneβs sacred creation space (studio, workshop, garage, mural-covered alleyway, deep healing journey, lush gardenscape, den of creativity, etc), I get hit with a jolt that makes me want to keep part of the experience πππ create my own.
I feel a magic spark when I stumble across a painter amongst his paintings wearing pants that hold a story from every canvas heβs touched.
Or a messy-haired author surrounded by scribbles on papers and balled-up rejects scattered on the floor.
Thereβs an aliveness that emerges from deep within me when I take in the sight of a dancer in motion so fluid there cannot be space for logic.
Or when I observe a sweaty silversmith smoking a cigarette in a deep concentrative pause while he takes a step back from his work.
I get so inspired and sometimes paradoxically frozen in awe at the courageous act of opening up so much to be a portal of such magicβ¦
But when it comes to sharing my own art, I often hold back β I get lost in wondering what it even IS that Iβm creating.
What is my medium?
What kind of artist am I?
What do I want to be known for?
*πππ πππ‘ π ππποΌπππ’ππ‘ + ππππ‘πππππ π€ππ£π βπππ*
Self-doubt aside, thereβs no doubt in my mind that I am a creative at my core.
But because I play in so many forms and formlessness,
Because my process is so messy and rarely complete (whoβs isnβt tho π€),
Because Iβm ever evolving and ever-changing,
Because I donβt have βa thingβ but in fact I have many,
Sometimes I feel like I canβt claim being an artist because Iβm lacking some kind of tactile-achievement-based excuseβ¦. Like unless I have something tangible that you can buy maybe, π‘βππ I can call myself an artist. And when I donβt feel like ππππππ or π ππππππ something but instead spend time in πππππness for a while, no longer am I an artist. Like Iβm only worthy if Iβm being productive, πππππ’ππππ. Can you relate?
The truth is, I would assume for every creative (aka every living human), that itβs the times πππ‘ spent in creation-mode that make space for the next masterpiece.
Itβs the time spent πππ£πππ that ignites the spark that leads to the inspiration to make someπ‘βπππ.
And so, if I were to be completely authentic in sharing my art at this time in my life, it wouldnβt be a string of beads as you might assume if youβve been hanging around for a while.
I would express through sharing very regular moments like these.
Moments where I capture the magic of the human experience with my greatest creation yet, my daughter, as my muse.
Moments where I allow myself to be my own muse.
Where I love my self enough to ππ the art.
the moments that find myself the most deeply connected with my identity as an artist is when I fall in love with my own process, my own existence, my own human experience, and when I can find enough courage to share these vulnerable moments these raw moments.
Isnβt the whole point of sharing oneβs art to evoke some kind of emotion β a kind of energetic message that moves through the artist to be shot out into the universe and received by someone who speaks the same creative language?
I hope this musing has lead you to feel some thing⦠the way that art does.
I hope you can fall in love with my art, even when itβs not for sale.
because for me,
the process ππ the art.
