When My Art Isn’t Deep, But I Am

I’ve always been a creative sort of person.
But I joke that I’m not really an artist. At least, not in the way other members of my family are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m handy with a paintbrush and I can wield a mean crafting knife. But my skills can be mostly attributed to a steady hand and an unabashedly wild imagination.
It’s just that I’m not terribly emotional about the pieces I create.

I meet artists who FEEL SO MUCH in their art. They have brush-strokes of sorrow crossing lines of excitement and dripping with their own sins and celebrations. Their gift comes from a place deep deep in their gut.

But my art just jumps from my fingertips all willy-nilly. It’s not deep. It’s not painful. It’s just some smooshes of paint filling in a rough canvas.

And when I’m done, I’m done. No tears. No feelings.

I’ve always had this idea that artists are something … something more.
{Continue reading over at SheLoves Magazine}

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