This won’t be a long post. At this moment words are flying through my brain and out of my ears, unable to pause long enough to be captured by pen or page. Instead I bury myself in art. I don’t feel like an artist. I don’t believe I have this innate talent that screams for attention. I simply have a love of art and a need to express myself in new ways with various mediums.
To claim, however, that I am expressing myself is simply untrue. I am attempting to express myself but I am limited by my ability. Nevertheless, I try anyway because it helps to set my mind at ease. The tranquility of the process is enough to help me sort through the various layers that have tangled themselves in my mind. As an act, as an expression it helps me speak out and reach out of my own darkness in a search for beauty.
I have a strange issue with drawing, I’m a bit of a copycat. Partly because I’ve never taken a class or devoted any real time learning about the theory, partly because I’m not imaginative enough to see something real and know how to draw it in 2D. I don’t fully understand perspective and I’m still trying to get a grasp of proportions. Shading and colors look flat. I love art but I have always seen it as something outside my reach. A hobby for those with a talent I simply do not possess. Yet the more I fall into depression over the years, the more I feel a visceral tug towards creating something beautiful.
A strange side effect of my new focus is that my children are also focusing on the arts. Music, art, dance… Beauty and life in its many forms are fascinating to them. Expressing their own creativity is their favorite activity of late and I can see the beauty of expression even in their youthfully and developmentally appropriate creations.
Art has become a natural part of our lives and we are all better because of it.