So today I did something intimidating. I had to purchase 14 blank canvases for a class, as well as a ton of paint. My grand total wound up being $180 on art supplies. So I am not a literally starving artist.
I was looking at how big and scary and blank and intimidating a white canvas is. They are sitting in the perfectly white plastic bag. And I hear them all. They smell my fear. My fear of explorationg. I come to this conclusion on almost a bi-daily basis. This encounter with this fear that maybe I am just not good at what I do, and maybe it doesn't matter. I feel like the art represents itself though so, even if it's just the pieces alone that matter, without me having to bear the responsibility of having any meaning? I'm not sure. It's a very unnerving thing to listen to gossiping canvases.
I was told at one point during my last semester that I wasn't a real artist. I was told that I didn't demand enough of myself. Is that what being great is about? Is that what defines me? How does some other person get to determine what this means? How can they determine how much I demand? (oh I really like that question, ask yourself that outloud, and revel in how good it sounds for just one minute). Somedays I think I should have just woken up read Cosmo bought all my clothes at Gap and decided to go into business, or want to be a housewife. I think having to wake up and realize everyday that you are only as full of the hope you put into yourself, and that you are only as relevant as you make yourself is a very tricky thing to do, and in fact, I think it's pretty demanding.
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