Let it be known that I have been trying to find a new artistic style for a long time—my artistic style. It seems that since the age of 13 I’d lost the damn thing.
I still feel very lost, amidst the annals of self-judgement and rational criticism. But, struggling, I’m finding my way. Listening to the sometimes senseless voice of oneself is, for me, a hard thing.
I rue the day I ever learned consistency was important in art, and that my art became literal illustration, rather than that which it had always been; possibility.
It is going to take a lot of courage to slowly make my way back to that which I always was, and forever will be. If art is the truest, clearest representations of ourselves, who are we to denounce it? Are we not disowning all we are, on our deepest level? How can we be taught that any form of art is “wrong,” if such things are only different, or not to the judging individual’s taste?
Psychologically art represents a need to grow, to change, and to learn oneself. It can be a scary thing, and you can’t put it into a category until the piece is complete, despite what all the marketers say. Perhaps it is because I am an iNtuitive, but art is not necessarily a Sensing ordeal alone; it is not merely what you find before you, but the journey to arrive there. It holds layers of dual meaning which you may not even know, and that only work after later work will reveal (if at all).
Who are these characters, and what do they mean? That is the true journey to writing a book, or composing any great, creative piece. It is a journey of discovery, surrender, and, ultimately, achievement—but only if you can let go, and accept yourself.
In the end, that is the hardest thing. For it reveals to us all our flaws, most brutally—but by it gifts us the sight to grow.