There is an artist in me. I am sure of it because I wanted it to be so since I was a child, as a teenager, as a young adult and still now as a woman looking towards retirement I want it to be so. I participated in a few years of art classes at high school, following all the guidelines, principles etc and produced some works considered good enough the school asked to buy my end of year folio. However there was something not quite right from my perspective, it didn’t feel wild and exciting, like I thought it should be and I was a little disappointed.
So I dabbled here with a little textile, there with a little photography, a bit more in clay, followed by more classes including one where I used art as therapy to reach some dark places in me, jewellery making, then pencil and charcoal. Nothing ever seemed to fit, but something stuck was always trying to get out.
I’ve learnt in recent years art does not have to be perfect. But it must be a rich, deep form of SELF expression, a contemplation of one’s own truth. That is what has been lacking, it’s not been the me I know speaking through the mediums I’ve tried.
“To me art is making mistakes; it’s the undetected magnificence of everyday life and the pleasure of creativity.” Unknown.
This quote I came across a while back invigorated me. Recaptured in my mind the wild of my garden, something I created which is becoming a beautiful fabric of wonders. Observing the magnificence of my garden and responding to it as a living, breathing system has given me that simply amazing pleasure of creativity. And it’s a glorious mess of nature.
So now without perfectionism, without exams, without expectations I am heading for another rollercoaster ride. Last weekend I produced the magic of felt for the first time. It was tactile, I had a blast and am back on the artist train again.
Oh Joy! My heart is crying out for more. Colours, clay, swirls, paper, faces and trees, trinkets, feathers, paint. And more felt, fabric, ink. I am ready to play again, like a child.