Why is it so hard to label myself as an artist? I want to be an artist. I certainly have the paraphernalia of one. I paint. I have sold my artwork.
But saying I am an artist is exceedingly difficult to say out loud. It seems odd, but I don’t think it is that unusual.
I think in part it is that I am still a beginner in this endeavor, but it is also more than that. I am not just an artist. I am also a writer, an author, explorer, a mother, wife, wild child, daughter, friend, and many other labels that only identify fractions of my soul.
To peg myself an artist seems insurmountable and insignificant at the same time. I’ve always admired artists because of their unique voices and the seemingly fearless way those voices are demonstrated.
But I am not fearless. I am just the opposite. How can I be an artist if I have to fight my fear? Seems pretty silly. Especially at my age. To show my art I have to make my way through that fog of fear. Befriend it and walk hand in hand with it.
So I put myself in situations like this upcoming art festival. It is exceedingly uncomfortable, and part of me is screaming inside while I make preparations to step into the role of artist for the weekend.
At the same time I am thrilled that my artwork was accepted into the show and am hopeful that my art will find a warm reception.
Even if it does not, as my fear whispers to me, the fact remains that I am an artist because an artist creates. Period.
So I continue taking the next step again and again, feeling my way along a path I can’t see. Trusting that the path is the right one. It feels good.