(Forgive this long intro; for some reason, I felt the need to include this before I got to the meat and potatoes part.)
I have few memories of art as a child. I remember my mother loved to color with my brother and me. There is a vague recollection of nature coloring books where one page was a color-by-number and the next page was the same picture without numbers. My favorite possession was a box of 64 Crayola Crayons with a built-in sharpener.
My best friend, Gail, and I would make our own paper dolls and design the clothes for them. I remember tracing the form for the clothes to fit the doll and making the tabs to fold over for her to wear. My figures were always plain (in my eyes) and the clothes not very inspiring while Gail’s dolls were beautiful with fashionable clothes (in my eyes). She was two years older than I and played the big sister.
The next thing artsy I remember was a girl in elementary school not allowing me to color in her book because I refused to color the horses white. Sometimes the kids on the playground would make fun of me so bad the teacher would let me stay in for recess. I’d spend the time drawing pictures on the blackboard – usually things of nature such as birds, trees, and flowers. Horses and cats were my favorite animals. Fourth grade and I was drawing the inside of a human body from pictures in an encyclopedia.
I was still an outcast in high school. I saw the other kids in art class as the better artists. (Looking back now I think it was mostly because I was a loner and I never wanted to do exactly what everyone else was doing – which was kind of the norm at the time.) I didn’t dare say anything. However, I remember one time standing up to the teacher because she only gave me a C on a project that I really liked. Plus, it hurt because I normally got As and Bs in everything. I remember going up to her desk to demand a better grade, but I don’t remember the outcome … I don’t even remember the piece. I only remember feeling humiliated by her tone. I never spoke up again or defended anything I did.
Maybe it was because I didn’t copy others that I was made to feel not good enough. I wish I could remember more. Most of my younger years are a black hole.
Years passed. I took occasional classes when time and money allowed. The desire for creativity became a driving force, almost a life or death situation. I found a voice through various self-help types of courses and writing, and it was in studying “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron that I finally found the courage to proudly say, “I am an artist.”
But it was the move to Bradford in 2006, when I took up charcoal landscape drawing that allowed me to devote time to actually be an artist. A friend convinced me to apply to be juried into a local art group and I was accepted in both charcoal landscape drawing and photography.
It wasn’t just being accepted in a group, but being accepted by other artists. Here there were a variety of different mediums used. Here the artists were not copying each other or doing the same thing, and I loved it. It’s very inspiring to visit other studios and shows. And another thing I discovered was that these artists loved to talk about their work.
I found a common denominator in many stories: Artists have often needed to defend themselves and their art.
So many aspects come into play and artists are often sensitive, emotional people. There’s that driving force within us that makes us artists, but too many times we face criticism and put downs. Our work is pooh-poohed as a hobby and not considered real work. We’re told to get “real jobs.” Then if we are doing something outside of the norm, that puts even more of a strain on our sensitivities.
The greater community doesn’t understand art as a driving passion. They don’t see the hours or the emotional ups and downs while creating. We finish our piece only to have critics find fault or we hear time and again how beautiful our work is, but no one makes a purchase.
I know the passion I put into my drawings or even with my photography. I am excited with the finished products and the joy at creating feels like it is oozing out of every pore. That excitement makes me not just show my work, but I want to talk about it; I want others to love it and want to buy it.
So what happens when you’re on an emotional high with a finished piece of art and you don’t get the responses that you would like?
Stay tuned. Nan McCarthy and I have been having wonderful conversations about art. I want to explore this subject further and would welcome any comments and feedback.
What do you do for art? Are you a traditional artist or do you enjoy exploring and finding your own way?
When have you felt the need to defend your work?
After reading my story, how has your own story of being an artist gone? Call me or email me.
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