One encounter enormously shaped how I saw my art and myself as an artist.
In high school art classes, I was more technically skilled
than most other kids. I was confident in my ability and often experimented with
color and media without fear. I drew and painted, and I read stories and made
stories, expanding where my mind could go – at home, in class, in after-school
class, during breaktime with friends, alone in the studio instead of eating
lunch.
There was a girl – let’s call her Sam – who attended “Advanced
Studio Art” too. Composed, thoughtful, somewhat sassy. Generally, I noticed her
as much as I would notice any other schoolmate.
One day, the teacher invited us to share some kind of
personal art – I forget exactly what it was about – but I remember when it was Sam’s
turn.
This was an Artist.
I don’t remember what she talked about. I don’t remember
what the artwork even looked like. I only remember staring at it… and seeing
something I could not do.
Her art showed her Self. Authentic Self.
It didn’t matter that the shading was flat, that the
rendering wasn’t all smooth. The work as a whole showed her intention – she had
expressed her Being. Composed, thoughtful, somewhat sassy. And deep and
meaningful, dark and light, genuine and unabashed.
This was Art.
I saw it and knew – that I don’t know how to do it, how to
make that. I wasn’t sure I could ever become an Artist. I don’t know if I could
ever have the courage and/or if I am able to nurture that kind of inside connection,
a way to bring my Inner to the Outer.
I’d always remember Sam and that moment with her art.
I hope one day I can be like that.
