I’ve been drawing, painting and creating since I was able to hold a pen or paintbrush, obtained a masters in design and worked in all sorts of artistic fields, but I still can’t resolve to call myself an artist.
The word artist, to be honest, scares me. Ever since I was a child, I’d hear it and its resonance would bring up images of Renoir, Monet, Degas, Pollock… images of works I always thought I couldn’t even compare to. Compliments are easy, and I’ve received my fair share over the years, but they can’t hush the voice inside my head repeating my work is a far cry from the greats’, and that I am no artist if being an artist is making one stand in awe as those grand painters did to me. I sometimes wonder if something doesn’t tick right in me, for all I’ve ever heard on artists is how proud and vain they were, and how different that description seems from me. I was taught humility but ultimately, I believe I was ripped of my deserved sense of pride; it’s never good enough, it’s never “it”, but it’s something I take out and give whoever is willing to take from me. Maybe in the end it’s not about being good enough, it’s about sharing a moment, an impression, a feeling in a world that constantly forgets the importance of our hearts.
I suppose an artist goes through phases of acceptance, acknowledging that he or she won’t be whom they hold in high esteem, whoever they look up to, but they’ll someday become someone worth a share of admiration, a few claps and maybe the occasional tap on the back. I make art, I try my best to apply my vision and hope it reaches someone’s heart or mind, and maybe in some near future, when someone will introduce me as an “artist”, I won’t look around trying to find the holder of such an exquisitely magical title.