The first time someone called me an “artist,” I laughed.
When I was young, I adored art class. However, an unsteady hand’s incompatibility with pastels and paints was apparent. Soon my scribbles started looking less and less like figures until they could only be seen as looping words. No longer did I try to tell stories through obscure blobs or groups of shapes, realizing that stringing words together was more my forte.
I am not an artist; I am a writer.
However, there came a time when I felt that my words were not up to par with the emotions I was attempting to convey. As I began to run out of words, my means of storytelling began to evolve. Mentally visualizing scenes can go only so far, for some feelings could only be understood through ones eyes. Angles and lighting effects began overshadowing the abundance of adjectives that would usually be used to create a scene.
I am not an artist; I am a camera technician.
In time, constantly attempting to convey the human experience became a drag. Perhaps melancholy had sank into my bones. My fingers endlessly twitched despite this slump. No longer did I want to tell the stories that plagued my mind or convey feelings that tore at my nerves. All I wanted to do was make familiar shapes and patterns. All I wanted to see was some semblance of sanity in my pile of trash.
I am not an artist; I am a loon with a pile of wood and metalscaps.
