Paint is the water that I drink
You are good at art, go do it
I’ve been entangled with painting for decades, since my teenage years, but I’m not that good at it. Certain aspects of it come naturally to me now, but I’m begging everyone to activate that creative side of their brain and be an artist of something, anything. In this world of AI, we need more artists.
Creative pursuits are kind of the whole point of this life thing. Up until I was an adult, I realized that when you’re learning about yourself and developing, you’re only told that you’re good at art if you can potentially monetize it. While da Vinci was compensated for his work and was recognized for his greatness in his lifetime, the money he made pales in comparison to what companies have made on replicas and merchandising of his work in contemporary times.
A very rare few have profited as artists, so we shouldn’t let that idea cloud our vision of the work. True, finances can fund the time to do the work, but I was the most prolific artistically when I was at my lowest in life and broke, therefore I can dish out this saccharine call to action.
As we know, icons like Van Gogh pursued their visions when they weren’t thought of as good at the time and he was quite poor because of this. We don’t have to live like Van Gogh to be artists, though. We know how much joy painting itself brought to him, despite all of his troubles and his unfortunate end. We can all be artists. It’s what I want so desperately for everyone.
What if you did an artistic thing for the pleasure and outlet of it, rather than the affirmation of others or the idea that it could make you money?
The truth is, once I honed my craft and found my niche, I put my art online and I sold it via Etsy and in-person markets. I felt successful but I lost the plot of enjoyment. Now I keep most of my paintings to myself, but I still obsessively do them. I am not a content creator. I don’t make videos of my process. Realistically, I just want my friends and family to enjoy my art, especially my maternal grandmother who greatly encouraged the process for me.
I’m not classically trained as a painter, but I do it whenever possible to feel alive. It’s the only thing that’s effectively helped me process trauma and stabilizes my mood.
As a child, I dreaded arts and crafts at school. I never felt like my projects looked as good as other kids and it gave me anxiety. I strayed from instruction, not on purpose, but because I felt like I couldn’t measure up to those around me. Something as simple as a paper chain made me sweat because if I ever brought any artistic project home, my mother would throw it straight in the garbage.
As a mom now I toss some things, but I treasure, display, and value the things my daughter can’t wait to show me. Like many of the people who lament that they wish they had my talent and passion, I would hear I was a good student but bad at art, particularly by adults. I wanted what was in my heart to be visible. I think that’s what art is about: it’s about making what is in your heart visible to others.
Everyone who identifies as a non-artist always says how they wish they were artistic like me, but that’s because I didn’t let the criticisms get to me. Actually, I do let them get to me. Not just in art but all areas. I cried a lot and continue to cry a lot amid all the rejection I’ve experienced, if I’m being honest. But I guess what I’m trying to say is I keep going. I became an artist in spite of how good I was at it (I’m not da Vinci).
Art lives within all of us but it’s one of those things that aren’t profitable for many, so people default to the sense that because they can’t commodify it, it’s not worth doing.
As a kid I loved coloring and crafting on my own terms. I received some paint by numbers sets, but trying to paint within the margins made my skin crawl, so I made executive decisions to paint how I wanted to. When I watched David Lynch recount in an interview how his mother refused to buy him coloring books, as she thought it would limit his creativity, the weird little goth girl in me felt vindicated.
I have one distinct memory living on my paternal grandmother’s farm when I was a tween and doing a paint by numbers of kittens. A troop of many of the semi feral barn kittens hopped up on my shoulder while I struggled to paint in the lines just right. One of the kittens fell into the paint before me, leaving their little paw prints all over my paint by numbers as they then fell onto the canvas. I liked how it looked, so I dipped their paws in the paint again, making dozens of sets of lavender and mint colored paw prints appear across the lines I should have so diligently obeyed. My step grandfather came outside in the cicada-shrieking heat, peered over my shoulder, and said: “looks like you ruined it. What a waste.”
Having thought I had no artistic talent, in the eighth grade, I pursued painting a black and white picture of Marilyn Monroe. It was the first artistic experience where I could do what I wanted without limitations under instruction. Up until that point, art class was about all of us kids doing the same projects and making comparisons: whether it be perspective drawings or specific drawings of the same subject matter. Marilyn won me several prizes that year and suddenly my artistic abilities were validated. As a child I deeply needed that, as all children do. In high school, my Spanish teacher asked me to paint a mural in her classroom in exchange for skipping out on my final. This was another validating moment, but I had far more discouraging ones throughout my youth.
Centering and grounding myself becomes a struggle because I sometimes feel I imposter syndrome at my core and can’t shake this notion because it’s what I was told at an extremely formative time. So I always feel that way: inadequate, unable to express myself or feel like my needs and wants are being reciprocated. I feel lonely and isolated like no one understands me, but then I pick up my brush and paint over those thoughts. I drown all of the voices in cheap acrylic.
With both of my children at three months old, respectively, we started painting with edible finger-paints. We express ourselves without rules. My daughter got a Lisa Frank art set and wanted to just paint the middle of all the pictures in the kit. I sent a photo of her enthusiastically painting and a relative instructed, with the kindest of intentions, that she color the whole page.”Be sure to teach her the rules,” they said. I want to break all the rules now, though. My children will break them with me.
In preschool and early childhood learning, art is central. Then, over time, it gets sidelined and defunded, just like recess and convening with the natural world. Is it any wonder that once the monotony of our jobs take over, a part of us becomes dormant? I am ready to wake up, every single day. Join me.