I've Never Identified as an Artist
I’ve never identified as an artist.
To me, an artist was someone who was hopelessly cool, mysterious, and even sexy but also had a melancholic sadness to them. I thought that if someone pronounced themselves as an artist and felt compelled to share their art with the world they were also probably a tad bit vain. The audacity to think that THEIR scribbles, songs, or splatters were more important than anything else happening in the world. As if!
“Self-expression is about what it feels to live, not whether you had the right to claim any emotion at any time.”
But what I am realizing now is that those are limiting beliefs. The audacity to claim your space and title as an artist is exactly how you get defined as one. Why would anyone want to claim their title as an artist? Well, that’s a whole other topic, but for one it gives others permission to explore their own creativity. And two, it gives you an opportunity to be seen by and connected to others who have walked or who want to walk similar paths.
The other day I rode my bike 45 minutes in the drizzle to attend a creative writing workshop. Fed up with the strict curriculum of her therapeutic writing courses, the facilitator decided to develop her own method by fusing therapeutic methods with creative writing methods. During the session, we were prompted to write several things but one exercise that stood out to me was that we had to make a list of 100 limiting beliefs or insults related to our artistic ability that we’ve absorbed over the years.
I’m not going to lie, it was tough for me. What I realized at that moment is that I’ve had a lot of support for my writing over the years. My last long-term partner for example told me I was a beautiful writer and was forever encouraging me to do more with it. Once a dear friend of mine said “I would read anything you wrote.” I also know my writing has been impactful- a friend of a friend even moved to Berlin because she had been reading my newsletter which had planted a seed for her to begin her own Euro journey. I’ve been published several times by a popular blog in Berlin, an online feminist magazine, and a local periodical in Tucson. I even read one of my essays about my breakup with my menstrual cup to a room full of strangers and delivered a very personal story onstage about an actual breakup to another room of complete strangers. And soon an oracle deck that I wrote and designed will be published by a Publishing House in Tucson.
But still, I didn’t consider myself an artist.
When people ask me what I do I usually say “web designer, content marketing consultant” in that order. I don’t know when I started this but it’s definitely a habit. And it’s definitely not sexy. No one usually asks follow-up questions, instead segueing into a comment about the weather or how long I’ve been living in Berlin.
After writing down my list of 100 limiting beliefs or insults, we were prompted to circle any patterns we noticed. Three insults I’d circled happened to come from my past three partners/lovers. And they all had to do with their attraction to women who had claimed their title as an artist.
The first sting
My partner whom I’d been with for 6 years and had amicably split ways with, was excitedly telling me about his new girlfriend. “And she’s an artist! She makes puppets.” His eyes lit up as if he had won the lottery. He had his own aspirations of selling his insurance business and becoming a recluse painter one day and he probably hoped she would inspire him to pivot in that direction. Still, it stung.
The next sting
When the rebound lover I started seeing after my long relationship ended told me he’d been dating someone else, a photographer, the familiar sting stung my heart. But not because he was seeing other people. We were in an open relationship. My heart stung because he said, “I’m just excited to spend time with someone who actually makes a living off their art”. Never mind that I had just been signed by a publisher who would soon publish a desert animal oracle deck I had written and designed or that I had my own content marketing business that allowed me to travel the world and work when I wanted.
The most recent sting
The last and final sting came when my most recent lover and friend, a street performer who really did make a living (albeit a meager one) from his flutist skills, and I were having a video chat while I was in Costa Rica. He asked if I’d met anyone and I confessed that I had been casually seeing my surf instructor. A smirk lit up his face, “I can’t lie, I am curious, but I won’t ask any questions.” A few moments later he dropped the bomb, he too had met someone, a young supple artist who sold her drawings on the street. It didn’t sting because he’d mentioned her being young or supple. I may be 36 and not nearly as supple as I was when I was 24 but I love my body very much. What hurt the most was that yet another lover had mentioned how wonderful it was to be with an artist, thus implying that I wasn’t one.
To be honest, I don’t know why these subtle stings stung so much. I don’t believe they were said maliciously. But for some reason, I had been holding onto the pain they caused me. When I realized the connection during the workshop, my eyes began to tear up. The only person stopping me from being an artist was me.
I walked out of that workshop with a new identity. One that I’ve secretly been waiting to claim my whole life. The truth is I have always been an artist, my life a painting. And anyone who I choose to spend time with is a new color on my canvas. I leave space in my day for spontaneous walks in the park. I dance in the grocery store, the stairwell, and while waiting for the train. I tell my friends I love them frequently and make sure to give a good head scratch to any dogs I encounter throughout the day. I nourish my body with colorful foods and find joy in learning new things, like how to DJ, pick the ukulele, or speak Spanish.
And I write. Sure, sometimes I write LinkedIn posts for my clients so I can pay bills or personal essays for my blog because it helps with SEO, but I also scribble beautiful musings in my journals when I wake up in the middle of the night, songs on my ukulele to celebrate the loves in my life, silly children’s books for my niece and nephews, and random stories on the notes app in my phone when I am out walking in nature and inspiration hits.
And one day I will be a published author. Perhaps with a partner by my side whose eyes light up when they tell their friends they’re dating an artist, someone who makes a living off her art. But until then, I’ll practice what it feels like to embody this new identity. For starters, when someone asks me what I do for a living from now on, I am going to casually reply “I’m a writer, how about you?”
