i am not used to being called an artist. for so long, i avoided the title–not because i didn’t want it but because i didn’t think i deserved it.
ricky was the artist in the family. he was the one who spent hours at his desk drawing, who won award after award for his work, who always had his head in some kind of charcoal-and-color-lined cloud. in class, kids would tell me stuff like “you’re such a good artist!” and “how do you draw so well?” but i would always respond, “oh no, i’m not an artist. i don’t draw well at all.”
so, i didn’t take any art classes, and i didn’t minor in art like i’d wanted. i didn’t think i had any kind of real talent. a knack, maybe — the way i can carry a tune and the way i end up baking perfect brownies every time without knowing how — but not talent.
somehow art kept following me, anyway. the more i let myself create, the more i realized i enjoyed it. i painted a mural at my old church. i designed the college newspaper. i started building websites and they started getting noticed. now, i’m nearing completion of a (soon-to-be-revealed) web project for an artist whom i adore. i can’t help but think i have to be doing something right.
i realize now that there is really no escaping it. i make things. i try to make things pretty. i design, i paint, i draw, i build, i create. if these artists let me into their world then maybe i should accept that i belong there.
while volunteering at a hospital during high school, i met a little girl who asked my friend to draw a picture for her.
“oh no,” carrie said. “i can’t draw.”
the girl looked at her, puzzled, and replied: “you have hands, don’t you?”
carrie was stumped. what do you say to that? nothing. you can’t say anything to it, but Yes.