What’s Your Story

I feel tight in my back today. I slept huddled against the blankets, my own warmth filling the tiny bed. I’ve moved into the bunk room for the duration of my tantrum, a decision I’m really happy about, because I have the space and I was able to identify what I needed. But that’s for another post.  The dog barked in the night and I woke up this morning to the pitter patter of kids and walked right into the routine. No meditation, no yoga, no morning pages, no sage burning… call it walk into the fire.

It’s not the best start, but at least I refrained from starting the ‘poor me’ narrative, and to be honest, it’d refreshing. I put the kids on the bus and sent them off. Wrote the cheques for the lunches, answered an email or two, walked the dog in the haze of mist that surrounds our road. The trees in the fields glimmered, as if they were archetypes of a past society.

What is my story?

This summer, in some of the goal setting work I was doing, I pushed myself to see if I could get my stuff art out there, in the physical world. And so I opened the online shop, I started showing alot more work and became comfortable with the idea of being an artist. Or whatever that word is that you want to use.

Or so I thought.

Now recently, I met with a store manager for an exciting event, that could be really big for me. And I realized through my conversation with this person, that I wasn’t even close to being able to assume a title of artist. I stammered through questions and left with a distinct feeling that if I wanted a show, as an artist, that I shouldn’t really play up the fact that I work mainly as an interior designer and that my ‘stuff’ is really just doodles that I work on in my free time. You know, that it was just for fun.

which is a steaming pile of shit. Right?

Outside of the comfort of the screen, and the cozy protectiveness of my studio, IN A FACE TO FACE CONVERSATION WITH A STRANGER I wasn’t able to say the words (that get me choked up every time, btw) I am an Artist. I want to sell my work. I think my work is worth something (oooh, that one is the real doozy) and I believe that people want to see what I see.  You can include in there I want my art to have an audience and if you can bear it, I want an audience.

I have a show at the local library in January. Something I challenged myself to do. To see really how it all works: how to you hang your stuff art, how much stuff art  do you need, does your stuff need to be cohesive or can you mix and match your stuff. And my first challenge (creating the work seems to be the easy part, at this point anyways) arose: the curator needs a blurb about the artwork.

So what the fuck is my story? How can I write an artist manifesto if I can’t even be honest and openly claim what I want?

Screetch to halt.

This isn’t about my art guys. It’s not even about me.

This is about ownership.

This is about tust.

This is about truth.

So I’m trying something new.

This is the story I carry:

I don’t feel like I deserve. To get paid for drawings, is just one of the things. Drawings are easy for me, but life is hard.  You need to do hard things in order to be a good person and if things are too easy, they’re probably bad. Drinking two bottles of wine is EASY. Let me tell you. People around me suffer and have difficult lives, and so, why should I get the free pass. Do the hard things and you’ll be good.

But this is my truth: 

A while ago, I remembered I could draw. I remembered that I had drawn for longer than I hadn’t, and so I started again. After having life’s rug pulled from under me a number of times (alcohol, drugs, bulimia, shame, guilt), I knew I needed to start from the inside. And so I did. I live torn between opposites, never fully able to land in one place.  These are the pieces of art that have emerged from my self-exploration. I see magic in the sky and clouds. I see sorrow and beauty in the the women I know and those that I do not.   I see stardust in the wilderness around me and it reveals itself in patterns.

If you happen to know what it all means, please let me know.  I haven’t a clue, but I know I’ll figure it out eventually.