I don't know when it happened that art became this daunting task, this high pressure activity that needed a mindblowing, eyeball-popping end result. It might be hive's fault. Just a little bit. There are some fucking fantastic artists here. Fucking fantastic is in the eye of the beholder, of course, but my beholders were whispering words of no confidence into their neighbors, the ears, which are --did you know?-- very close to the brain.
Poor brain. Sometimes she has no idea how to take a load off.
Truth is I've put pressure on myself over my art for years. It's limited my drive. I miss how easy it was to be a little kid fascinated with horses and finding joy in drawing ten versions of the same foreleg until I felt like I'd gotten it right. That wasn't pressure, that was fun. Now that I know what I am capable of, I've imposed upon myself a multitude of expectations for masterpieces every time I pick up a brush or a pencil. It doesn't make sense, really. I love making art. Don't I think I deserve to enjoy the process?
This past week I forced myself to take time to make some art. The art itself was not forced. In fact, when the creation didn't live up to my expectations, I told my expectations to go fuck themselves and took the creation in a different direction. That sounds like a good time, yeah? I wanted it to be. I miss the loving relationship with art that I used to know. Free flow, freestyle. I think I felt it. Sometimes. Glimpses. It's in there, somewhere. Hiding. Sorting things out like the rest of me. It will come back when it's ready. When I've rebuilt a home for it. In the meantime, I've at least reaffirmed that I still have a knack for creating some very bizarre shit.
Technical ink pen and colored pencil. Cell phone photography, nothing fancy. No process photos. Hell no. Too stressful.
Thanks for looking.
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