art
my experience with it
My mom is an art teacher, and everyone knows of this fact. She would always be the parent volunteering to design the teacher's appreciation week doors or the mother boasting about my artistic achievements to anyone within earshot. So it should come as no surprise that I came to be branded as someone who would eventually specialize in the field of art.
People would shower me with praise. “As expected of someone whose mom is an art teacher,” they would follow up with. Their expectations and applause only served to weigh me down like shackles.
Art was my everything. Every year when we were asked "what do you want to be when you grow up?" I would answer "artist" without hesitation. From the silly doodles of me and my friends I would graffiti all over my workbooks during class to the lovingly shaded-in sketches of 3-D cubes and spheres adorning my math handouts, signs of my bright future as an artist were everywhere.
However, I would never be able to draw anything too complicated or complete, for my sense of perfectionism always got the best of me, pressuring me to create something that would leave me nothing short of breathless. Otherwise, I felt compelled to scribble it out, tear up the page, crumple it, and toss it in the recycling bin, for I could not stand to even look at a work of mine that was not capable of bringing me sheer, unadulterated joy.
Was art my everything? It didn't take long for me to start questioning whether my desire to pursue art was a dream of my own or a byproduct of the cravings to fulfill others’ expectations of me. I began to block myself off from receiving compliments. Before anyone could even think to criticize me, I would always be a step ahead, having already bashed my drawings for all their little eccentricities that only I could see. I refused to cultivate an ego that would overtake my ability to sense the hideousness of my work. I thought of art as a marathon between me and everyone else, a marathon that I was not well prepared for, yet trusted that sheer motivation would propel me ahead of everyone else to the finish line when the time came to it.
For the longest time, I considered that pursuing art just wasn't the path meant for me. Yet whenever I would be faced with the option to choose between creating artwork or writing a report, I would naturally gravitate towards the art option. Art was my zone of comfort, but I found no comfort in my artistic creations. This all changed when I took art 1 last year because I needed the credits and felt that I wasn't qualified to enter into AP studio art.
At first, I regretted my decision. These people don't even care about this class. I don't even care about this class. Why am I wasting my time here? I had thought. And so at the start of the second week of school, I sought out my counselor and asked if I could switch electives. Having received a no as a response, I would show up to art classes, apathetic towards the assignments that I already had years of experience doing. That is, until we started the free drawing unit.
Blank pages had always scared me. My mom had always told me what to draw and how to draw it. So this newfound freedom, this trough of endless possibilities, it was all so very daunting. My lack of a creative spark haunted me at every turn. I believed that no matter what I drew, someone out there could draw it better, and nothing I would do mattered. Gradually, something within me crystallized, something fragile that vehemently demanded protection.
I could draw whatever I wanted, however I wanted, using any medium I wanted, and no one expected anything of me. I realized that, as Emily mentions in her piece about productivity culture, it’s in times of leisure, when we are able to draw things one stroke at a time without fearing for how incomplete it looks before the end product, that we are, slowly but surely, able to formulate a visual of our own identities.
I've been inspired to pick up drawing again, but this time, I’ve decided to start from the basics. I no longer draw out of obligation. I no longer believe in pure latent talent and qualifications. I no longer throw my drawings away. I stare at my strengths and weaknesses in the face, and embrace the truths for what they are. This mentality has gotten me far. I can now proudly say that I view drawing as a marathon with myself. I treat it as a side hobby, rather than a prospective career.
In solidifying my foundation of drawing, I’ve also learned to humble myself, to dismiss my failings while reveling at my improvements. I’ve learned to enjoy the process of events unfurling rather than constantly agonizing over achieving the perfect end.
I'm an artist’s daughter and an aspiring artist, but I'm also my own person and the chooser of what I would like to do with that knowledge in the future. And to change my future, I’ve decided to disregard the past and instead focus on the present, progressing forward one sketch at a time.
;w; sadge