Art always finds a way to worm itself into my life. And I can’t stand it. Art has twisted me, turned me inside out, and spit me out, and why I continue to go back to it will always be a mystery to me.
Setting the Scene
Ever since I was little, art has played a very large role in my life. The influences were everywhere. In elementary school, we were participating in weekly art classes, and plays and musicals were a yearly tradition. Everyone was encouraged to participate, and being the little kids with the big dreams that we were, everyone got a part. We had a poetry teacher once a week some years. There were murals and painting everywhere. My sister painted. Art played such a big role in my life and growing up, and I wasn’t even aware of how much until I sat down to write this piece.
Naturally, I started art too. I attended an art class with my sister. She continued with her art, and the teacher helped me get the hang of art basics. This would be the exact point in my art life that I would begin to hate it. I never got anywhere. I never got any assignments other than to follow some drawing how to book. There was nothing more than zebras and lions. And I would beg and plead to move on from thousand-year-old pencils and pastels to paint. I sought a chance at change, and I never got it. The opportunity was never thrown my way. So it went on. I continued the dumb little drawings of lions and zebras from the unhelpful art books. I continued not to be accepted for the displays, the competitions, or receive any ribbon or certificate of achievement. My sister got them all.
I was not jealous of my sister. I knew I would never be like her and I accepted that.
I was a figure skater. I dedicated three years of my life to it, and it ended so suddenly. I took up contemporary dance which when got too expensive I also dropped. In the fourth grade, I tried the violin, which continued through fifth and by the time I was in middle school, I was in my third year of orchestra, but decided to switch to another instrument. For the next three years, I would be playing the viola. I built friendships, went to competitions, and my skills were recognized. But I would eventually drop that too.
I took up writing, and I enjoyed it. I escaped through the words and was able to create a whole new world of fantasies, where my dreams could be my realities. It was something I enjoyed, and for the longest time, I believed this was what I would be doing. In 8th grade, I auditioned to School of the Arts, and I was let down. I was rejected, and it hit me hard. It crushed me, it killed me, and I quit writing.
My hate for art was never about the rejections; it was about the lack of opportunities, the very limited room to grow. No one ever took my art seriously, and no one believed in me enough to push me off the diving board. I was never offered more than a how-to art book, audition, and when I was, it was too expensive.
Art takes time and a lot of effort. It’s something we artists dedicate our lives too, but living is also expensive. There are rent and bills and groceries and so many things to poke at your wallet, and it’s all too much. As an artist, people often don’t recommend you or share your art. They don’t buy your art. They don’t commission you. And that sucks. And being an artist is hard. And finding support is even harder.
I hate art, and it means everything in the world to me.
It’s always been in my life, disappointing, amazing, and all together somehow indescribable. I continued to explore art and found myself being often rejected. I have tried and crawled through thick and thin through every art, every mountain, and barricade. I change my style. I scrapped my style. I tried everything from the start again. It was the lasting thought of “When do I get a shot?” that stuck with me. Things ended quickly. And its all lead up to where I am now.
I don’t know where I am now, but that doesn’t scare me quite as much anymore. I’m keeping my options open and my head high.
Dear Art,
You don’t scare me. :)
All the best.
Anonymous