The Creative Process pt. 7

To create and to make art is an awful lot like bearing your soul. Some of us were born with our souls on the outside. It has always been apparent that we’d continue on this way for much of our lives. Some of us had to learn to bear our souls. If art is to be good, if it is to mean something, it must first be raw and be real. Now, it does not have to be sad or angry or painful, it can be joyful or full of awe but it must be full of something. 


I’ve heard it said that in order to create a compelling character they must be at least a little bit real, they must have some truth about the author included to be believable. I believe this thought can be applied to any and every art form. My best pieces, my most impressive or well liked paintings often hold the most emotion for me. I have one in particular that is somewhat abstract and was my outpouring of anxiety and fight with depression. My dad took one look at this painting and said it looks like roses. I have another painting that was my own desperate plea to work through a long held grief, and my friend looked at this painting and said she wanted to buy it. She said it looked like trees and it felt like peace to her. 


Every time this happens it stumps me. Because realness attracts people, and I know this, but it still surprises me when it proves true. It all comes down to my own self perception, how it’s changed and how it used to be, it all influences how I react to others reactions to my art. Non-the-less honesty is what brings art to life. 


It’s a part of the artistic process that I find the most consistently difficult. I’ve learned to be honest with myself and with God, but opening up that sometimes messy part of my life has yet to become second nature. I am slowing coming to accept that it’s okay if the honest is simply that I created it became it made me happy. There is a fine balance that I’ve been trying to seek out, of raw messy honesty and permission to just enjoy the creating. Either way I lean it still bears my heart. It’s this silly little enigma, of wanting desperately to be understood and seen, and being petrified of the honesty it takes to be truly seen. 

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