artist – A Graceful Catastrophe

The other day I wrote about how I couldn’t possibly wrap my head around the idea that I am an artist. To me, the power that that word holds is simply magical. The people I have given the title of “Artist” are truly magical beings who are masters at their craft.

And then, out of the blue, someone whom I hadn’t seen in over 6 months, excitedly sat down with me and, seeming rather sad while she said I hadn’t emailed any more of my photography to her. She’s been waiting to see me to see my work again. As she was speaking to me, she referred to me as an artist. Now, she hadn’t read my blog or understood the rabbit hole of thought after thought I’d been diving down recently. She just spoke from her heart. And she said that what I do moves her. She said when she sees my photographs, something within her actually pulsates and she is drawn into the photo.

She said that about me. About my work. It took everything to fight back the tears that were forming. She spoke about ME with this almost reverent tone. She thought of me and my work how I think about other artists. And it was all completely unsolicited, which, for me, adds incredible value to the way I can absorb it as truth.

So, perhaps I was struggling with referring to myself as an artist because of the fear behind the power of that word. If I am an artist, that carries more pressure and more weight. If I am an artist, then I have a certain expectation to live up to (self-imposed, of course).

But, I am realizing that that is nonsense.

And…to at least one other person, what I do does evoke a sense of magic and wonder in her. I mean, to hear this woman talk about my work was exactly the way I have spoken about people I look at with wide-eyed wonder regarding their craft.

I don’t think she’ll ever quite understand what she did for me, but I think it’s quite likely I’ll carry that conversation in my heart for the rest of my days. And whenever I doubt my own magic, I’ll recall her eyes and her tone, along with her words, as she spoke to me.

Thank you, Leslie, for being so genuine and for sharing your unfiltered enthusiasm about me – as an artist. Because now I do believe I carry that title.

I am an artist.

May we all know a “Leslie” who can remind us of the magic that we carry within, especially when we can’t see it for ourselves…

So…one little word sent me down a rabbit hole in my mind this morning.

A dear friend of mine referred to me as an artist. And, oh, man… Did my brain go NUTS at that word! Like, me?! An “artist?” Nope. Definitely not me…

Artists are, like, GODS to me! Uber talented geniuses. Voices of angels. Hands with power and grace. Eyes that see the world in a way I could only DREAM OF seeing it. I’ve always wished I could be “an artist.” (Are you reading this with as much reverence as I say it in my mind? I mean, picture the skies parting, the angels singing, the sunbeams all directly shining upon the word, “artist.” That is the tone in which I hear and see that word.)

Artists are obviously up on a pedestal for me. I always wanted to be one but never felt I had the necessary skills or natural gifts to be one. I have always felt like an outsider, and completely incapable, when it comes to creating “art.” (Do you hear the angels singing??)

And yet, here I am. Pursuing a profession filled with artists. Like, REAL ARTISTS. The pure magic that some of these photographers create evokes chills within me. My mouth literally drops open and I’m just left either speechless or with one word…how?

I know I am at the beginning of my journey and the feedback I have received from my clients has been incredibly validating. I am in no way putting myself down, here. So I hope you don’t misunderstand me. I feel as though I am a connector and a creator. And I do believe I am pretty successful in what I am doing. My clients are happy and I am thrilled at being able to do what I do as my profession. To be able to create an experience for others where they feel seen, understood, and heard and then to have physical proof in the form of beautiful, raw photos that will remind them – for as long as they keep those photos – of exactly who they are, is incredibly fun and fulfilling. And I don’t take what I do lightly. It is with immense gratitude and respect that I do this work.

And, at the same time, I don’t feel as though what I am doing qualifies me as an “artist.” Creator? Yes. But, geez… I have put so much power into the word “artist” that I don’t know that I’ll ever consider myself one.

And I never realized that until now. Until I was referred to as an artist. Isn’t that interesting?

Obviously I have always believed words have power (this whole blog space is proof of that). For me, words are everything: I cannot process my own world without processing through words, I attach such incredible value to words that they take on a life of their own, and that phrase, “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,” uhh, pure lies. Physical pain is absolutely nothing compared to the pain I have felt from nasty words slung my way. Nothing hurts me worse than words. Nothing can soothe me more than words. And nothing can make me feel more loved than beautiful words.

Which, then, makes sense of why I attached so much power to the word, “artist” so long ago. In middle school, I SO wanted to take an art class. But, I couldn’t, because I was in band. And the way the schedule was prevented me from being able to do both. I think it was then that I started to make the distinction between “artists” and me. I would never be an artist because how does one become something without ever having the opportunity to pursue it? To learn it? It became this untouchable fantasy, something I could never be because it didn’t fit in my schedule. I could never be one of “them.” And then the same was true for high school. And then I just pursued academics, starting college classes as soon as I could drive to the local community college. I sped through undergrad and my master’s. There was no time to try to pursue “fluff.” Or to explore it. I was on a mission. And I could never be an artist, anyway, so why in the world should I slow down to ever even try to explore art?

sigh….

So, here I am. In my 40’s and finally have an opportunity to explore art. To help turn my clients into art and see themselves as wondrous beings that are filled with magic.

I wholeheartedly see my clients as exquisite pieces of art. Because they are.

But how dare I claim the title of “artist!” That title is for the geniuses who have been exploring art since they were children. They have lived it and breathed it since they were children. I just don’t fit in that category. I have wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember, but have never had that natural talent. Even my stick figures are questionable. (it’s okay to laugh…I am)

So, what is an artist to you? How do you define it? The power of words in my mind make me unable to wrap my head around allowing myself that title. I am in awe of artists: singers, painters, those who can draw, so many photographers I now know – artists are pure, exceptional magic. Artists are gods to me, on a level I could only dream of one day joining.

I am a creator. And I say that with the utmost respect to myself and to what I do.

Again…I am not in any way putting myself down. I am at the very beginning of my journey as a creator and am proud of where I am. It just struck me in a way I couldn’t have anticipated it would when I was referred to as an artist.

To call myself an artist feels as though I’m an imposter. A fraud. I know many artists. I know their work. And I am nowhere in that same category.

I wonder how I will feel about the title, “artist” in another 5 years. I wonder if now that I am finally afforded the ability to pursue learning an art if I’ll ever consider myself an Artist?

I suppose only time will tell…

How about you? Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to be but never felt you could ever be? I’d love to hear your stories and/or perspective!

Tag: artist

fear is nonsense

Imposter