Am I Really an Artist?

When I was younger I felt no fear, no apprehension, in writing stories. It was a glorious and wonderful field full of imagination, possibilities, and expression. I have started many tales, all of them filed away in my desk, most never finished, but all eagerly and enthusiastically penned. Somewhere I lost my sense of adventure and imagination, opting for reading and daydreaming, rarely writing anything. Yet when I now think about it there was a beast lurking in the shadows, and one I tried to avoid, which may be another reason why I have been absent from the fertile field of my imagination. Ever present was that monster that would criticize the work I had put my heart and soul into; always I would fear that person (or people) who would read my yarn, fail to see the expression of my [young] soul, and tear me apart by their opinions. My writing was always something infinitely more personal than anything else I had to offer, and I could not stand to have it examined, deconstructed, critiqued, and treated like a lab specimen. I wrote for myself, not for other people (I have heard this before, spoke by authors of published works).

After I retired my stories to their prolonged slumber, I tried my hand at yet another art form, something even harder for me to attain: I tried my hand at drawing. I was (and still am) fond of comic books. I would read as many as I could afford with abandon, sometimes three and four times a piece. I would find myself fascinated with their worlds, drawn in by the characters, and swept away with the seeming endless possibilities of their special powers/abilities. I tried to draw my own heroes, my own characters, my own settings. It was another expression, another telling of a new tale, but in my mind it was just drawing. Come to find out I'm not without skill, but I'm not good either. I can doodle, I can look at simple objects and capture their essence, but I cannot draw many things people would want to look at. In the end I found I have some ability to appreciate art, and to create art, but very limited.

I tried my hand at composing music, but quickly gave it up as it is more complex than I wanted to play with. I can hum or whistle little melodies, but I cannot make the harmonies and the other parts that would make a simple tune a real song. I can sing, but only songs I have heard before, and then only from an audio-memory and not from sheet music. Some people seem to think my singing is good, but I have found, like my writing and my drawing, I sing for myself, not for an audience. I'll sing because I feel like it, but not because someone demands it. I can perform if needed, but it's never as enjoyable as "jamming" with friends. I played violin for nine years, but gave it up over a decade ago. I can play the drums, but that is even more personal than my singing, and something I do for fun more than anything else.

At some point I started working with web pages and web design. This introduced me to a new world, one of typography, and I fell in love. I have always attempted calligraphy, but I have not fostered the patience to practice as I should, so I'm only mildly skilled. With typography I found I could arrange text without having to form the letters myself, and I was once again passionately pursuing a form of expression. I have done a few things, some of them I have made public over the years. Once, and this is my crowning glory, my moment of pride, I had a bona fide artist (possessing a degree from a University) not only compliment me on my typographical and web designs he joking told me to knock it off or he'd lose his job to me! I still persist at creating web pages and playing with typography (and calligraphy), but like my writing it is a form of expression, and incredibly personal.

I also program, I write code, I design systems, sub-systems, objects, and data formats. I manipulate data, I perform calculations, I push and prod at data until I get the results I am looking for and I now see I have considered it an art. I am constantly working to keep my programs in tune with my integrity, attempting to keep all hacks and kludges out of the code. I aspire to elegance, simple systems, an irreducible complexities of beauty. I cannot just write a program to get a job done, I have to make it a masterpiece!

For a while I was employed as a consultant and I had to design web pages, program web pages, and write application code to the specifications of a client. It was some of the worst experiences I have had to date. It was what I imagine prostituting feels like. My integrity was disregarded; I was forced to implement bad design; I was asked to create features that were ugly, worthless, and bound to incur the wrath of the end users; I was constrained by an unreasonable deadline and forced to make numerous ugly shortcuts. It is an experience I am not eager to return to. In all that time I could not express myself, I did not know why I hated my compromise, for it was only a job, and I could not figure out how to state my aversion. Now I understand and the revelation scares me: I was treating my code as art, and I was programming for myself while being commissioned.

I have tried to avoid being an artist, for they have garnered a bad reputation in my little world. The ones who have been introduced to me through History have been poor, destitute, debauched, obsessed, and otherwise miserable. They are usually filled with an angst that drives their art, they struggle and strive against working their art for themselves and working under commission. By and large they seem to have missed out an the joy life can offer, they seemed to have missed enjoyment, and I have wanted to avoid it. Yet now I have returned to my writing, the siren song of my muse has ensnared me once again, and I find my old fears are yet waiting for me. Am I really an artist?

Before writing this I would have said no, but I am surprised at the sheer amount of artistic endeavors I have thrown myself into, and the others I have made art where none was before. I may have to be an artist, but I will fight with all my strength to enjoy life. Yet I shudder with uncertainty at that task which lays before me. My denial is comfortable, my self-imposed ignorance is bliss. Am I really an artist?