“And what does this mean?”
“Why did you place that there?”
“What does it represent, exactly?”
I feel my heartbeat speed up. I know I must look like a deer in the headlights, when I am confronted with those simple questions. I blush with embarrassment as I hear myself talking, stumbling awkwardly through some pathetic explanation.
I dread those questions. They are simple enough; any artist should be able to answer them, right? So what is wrong with me? Why are these understandable inquires met with such internal trepidation?
I make art because I struggle to adequately articulate the chaos that is running through my mind almost incessantly. Creating art is a way to get thoughts out of my head and into the world. I want my work to be thought-provoking to viewers, even if the thoughts provoked aren’t similar to mine at the creation of the piece.
I think that is one of my favorite things about art, that gorgeous ambiguity.
My work tends to be primarily intuitive. It isn’t that I’m not thinking about what I am doing, I’m thoroughly engaged in the creation of every piece. However, my mind isn’t defining each individual element in relation to the concept of the work.
If only I had the time to think of it like I am now—in those moments of artistic panic. I could at least explain why I can’t define that particular visual element outside of the framework of the piece as a whole.
I suppose those intimidating moments, defending or explain my work—attempting to maintain the illusion that I’m comfortable, as an artist, in any situation, are what will eventually lead to me genuinely being comfortable in any situation.
That internal fear can only lead to growth.