I used to be a mermaid.
Really... dont laugh. I used to be obsessed with all things shiny, all things water. I was a lifeguard's worst nightmare. The kid who at at the bottom of the pool. This is back when I had an imagination. I could fly then too. And sometimes the sky was purple and gold and red.
I used to be an artist, of the best kind. Back when parents paid all your bills, and summers were meant for exploration and social communing.
And what am I now? I'm a "PROFESSIONAL." One of those sad, pitiable creatures who is more obsessed with making money, than how they make it, and whether or not they live in the "right" neighborhood. It's nobody's fault but my own. All my life, I have secretly been concerned with "running out." It may have something to do with where I grew up. Or all the scary statistics in the world. Mostly I think it came from how I conceptualize difficult times. Outside of my imaginative, artistic self, was a very self-aware young lady who wasnt big on optimism, being horribly grounded in realism. I didnt have faith in things "yet to come." I only dealt in the "here and now."
It's crazy ironic to say that I was capable of imagining the most fantastic things, obsessed with the bizarre and mythical, yet, felt cemented to dealing only with present situations. Ironic, but plausible. My imagnation was my escape. It wasn't a "wish" or a "hope." Just a mental vacation.
And so, I continued to imagine. And create, from my imagining.
Somewhere along the way, someone convinced me that I could make a living with my imagination, "Creativity," they called it. I suppose imagination can be "creativity,"but only if it drives you to create. I wasnt sure that I was creative. But my whole life, people convinced that I was, put me into situations to create.
So, I sometimes created. And then they called it art.
So, I became an artist. And there I was. Stamped with a vocational label, and set off into the world. I remember when my mother wanted my label to read more practically. "Lawyer." "Doctor." "President."
I forgive you the last one mother, haha. I could never.......
An artist...
At the time, I didnt know what it really meant.
What does a professional artist do? I remember searching the internet, reading library books, magazines.. I needed to know what the instructions were for my new vocation. Surprise, surprise! Artistry doesnt really come with a manual.
Lucky me.....
So there I was, in my new vocation, pontificating on the insanity of it all, when the cosmos, evidently delayed in recieving my question, decided to answer me.
"They make art, silly. And then sell it."
Eureka! I could do that. Make art, and sell it.
Those of you that are laughing, i'll kindly ask you to stop... I just didn't know....
I began to make art. Jewelry. Paintings. Written works. Everything. I set about making anything my mind cooked up. And sold quite a bit of it. This artistry flourished most during my undergraduate years of college, when the buying population was plentiful, and location was easy. Afterwards, I was thrust, headfirst, into the world, where professional artistry is not a cakewalk, but rather a scary, earthquake of an adventure.
Death to the Artist... Enter the professional.
Money became my motivation. Money to go out. Then money to buy a car to go out in. Then money to move out (of my mother's home). Then money to stay out.
In school, when I sold my art, I made money, of course. But it was different. Money was simply a by-product then, of sharing my imagination. I felt freedom with or without the money. Here in the real world, money was my key to everything. Sad, I know, but true.
Circumstances in my life were a bit rough financially. Consequently, money, of course, was the answer. And the end. I accepted projects for financial reasons.
Hey, you may say... atleast I was producing art.
But the motivation and the worry was about money. And then someone told me I had to learn to market myself. And that I had to pick ONE genre of art to market, and to put my energy into that, first.
I am sure this works in the business world. But to limit an artist is to kill her. So, i unknowingly shed my artist skin and became the PROFESSIONAL.
It wasn't long before what was left of the artist inside me felt malnutrition creeping in. Ive never been a one-hit-wonder artistically. Ive always had a bag of tricks, and sticking to one didn't feel successful. It felt suffocating. I didn't experiment anymore. I did what worked; the tried and true. This produce great works, sure, but there was, and still is, a part of me that craves "fresh" food. You see, I get bored very easily. I crave variety in all parts of my life, including my art. And so, I felt bored, and boring.
The artist in me was pissed! All that imagination just locked away in a box, because the Professional couldn't afford to make mistakes. And experiments led to mistakes. Mistakes cost money. The Professional didnt believe in wasting money.
Enter: The Breakdown.
Last month, I had a nice mental breakdown. Some therapists might call it a "quarter-life crisis." a new condition that affects twenty-somethings whose adolescence was held in suspension because of time spent in undergrad. "Postponed adults," they called us. We would experience certain freedoms and adult decisions much later in life than our non-collegiate counterparts.
Ok... sure.. whatever.
All I knew is that this boring, unmotivated, working-for-money, worrying-over-money creature I became was nothing like the woman I wanted to be when I was sixteen. I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be fun, and adventurous. I wanted to be well-traveled, and exotic, organic and artistic. I wanted to be unpredictable. I was exactly NOT that. And it sucked. A lot. Life could not go on this way.
I decided to take December off. How, pray tell, does a working adult take an entire month off? Careful planning. But that's another blog post altogether. I decided to go from three jobs to two, to relax more, "do nothing" more, and figure out, not only how I became the Professional, but how to get back to the Artist. Its been a real ride so far. At first, I woke up every day worrying about what work I should be doing. I had to make myself relax and convince myself that I did indeed have time to do "nothing."
It's only December 11th. I still have quite a bit of month to get through. But it's all baby steps. So far, I think I have learned a valuable lesson about not over-scheduling myself. I had the LONGEST to-do lists imaginable. And if I didn't finish, I usually berated myself for not being more productive. Now? I still make to-do lists, but I try to go back and cut them in half, putting the other half somewhere else. If I don't finish? Hey.... screw the list. Life is short. Kudos to whatever I DID get done. My next goal is to figure out a sensible marriage of my two halves. I cant survive just being an artist. And im unhappy just being a professional. But if I could figure out how to truly be the Professional Artist, I think I would be happy. As long as I remember to sometimes JUST be an artist, no professional. Its the only way to stay inspired!
So... I'm back to being a mermaid. From Venus, in fact. Yes... I'm a Venusian mermaid. My spaceship looks a lot like a giant soap bubble. Ha. And money? Well... a lot of different sources last month made me realize; I can always replace spent money. But I haven't figured out how to replace un-lived life.
XOXO
~Zuri
Really... dont laugh. I used to be obsessed with all things shiny, all things water. I was a lifeguard's worst nightmare. The kid who at at the bottom of the pool. This is back when I had an imagination. I could fly then too. And sometimes the sky was purple and gold and red.
I used to be an artist, of the best kind. Back when parents paid all your bills, and summers were meant for exploration and social communing.
And what am I now? I'm a "PROFESSIONAL." One of those sad, pitiable creatures who is more obsessed with making money, than how they make it, and whether or not they live in the "right" neighborhood. It's nobody's fault but my own. All my life, I have secretly been concerned with "running out." It may have something to do with where I grew up. Or all the scary statistics in the world. Mostly I think it came from how I conceptualize difficult times. Outside of my imaginative, artistic self, was a very self-aware young lady who wasnt big on optimism, being horribly grounded in realism. I didnt have faith in things "yet to come." I only dealt in the "here and now."
It's crazy ironic to say that I was capable of imagining the most fantastic things, obsessed with the bizarre and mythical, yet, felt cemented to dealing only with present situations. Ironic, but plausible. My imagnation was my escape. It wasn't a "wish" or a "hope." Just a mental vacation.
And so, I continued to imagine. And create, from my imagining.
Somewhere along the way, someone convinced me that I could make a living with my imagination, "Creativity," they called it. I suppose imagination can be "creativity,"but only if it drives you to create. I wasnt sure that I was creative. But my whole life, people convinced that I was, put me into situations to create.
So, I sometimes created. And then they called it art.
So, I became an artist. And there I was. Stamped with a vocational label, and set off into the world. I remember when my mother wanted my label to read more practically. "Lawyer." "Doctor." "President."
I forgive you the last one mother, haha. I could never.......
An artist...
At the time, I didnt know what it really meant.
What does a professional artist do? I remember searching the internet, reading library books, magazines.. I needed to know what the instructions were for my new vocation. Surprise, surprise! Artistry doesnt really come with a manual.
Lucky me.....
So there I was, in my new vocation, pontificating on the insanity of it all, when the cosmos, evidently delayed in recieving my question, decided to answer me.
"They make art, silly. And then sell it."
Eureka! I could do that. Make art, and sell it.
Those of you that are laughing, i'll kindly ask you to stop... I just didn't know....
I began to make art. Jewelry. Paintings. Written works. Everything. I set about making anything my mind cooked up. And sold quite a bit of it. This artistry flourished most during my undergraduate years of college, when the buying population was plentiful, and location was easy. Afterwards, I was thrust, headfirst, into the world, where professional artistry is not a cakewalk, but rather a scary, earthquake of an adventure.
Death to the Artist... Enter the professional.
Money became my motivation. Money to go out. Then money to buy a car to go out in. Then money to move out (of my mother's home). Then money to stay out.
In school, when I sold my art, I made money, of course. But it was different. Money was simply a by-product then, of sharing my imagination. I felt freedom with or without the money. Here in the real world, money was my key to everything. Sad, I know, but true.
Circumstances in my life were a bit rough financially. Consequently, money, of course, was the answer. And the end. I accepted projects for financial reasons.
Hey, you may say... atleast I was producing art.
But the motivation and the worry was about money. And then someone told me I had to learn to market myself. And that I had to pick ONE genre of art to market, and to put my energy into that, first.
I am sure this works in the business world. But to limit an artist is to kill her. So, i unknowingly shed my artist skin and became the PROFESSIONAL.
It wasn't long before what was left of the artist inside me felt malnutrition creeping in. Ive never been a one-hit-wonder artistically. Ive always had a bag of tricks, and sticking to one didn't feel successful. It felt suffocating. I didn't experiment anymore. I did what worked; the tried and true. This produce great works, sure, but there was, and still is, a part of me that craves "fresh" food. You see, I get bored very easily. I crave variety in all parts of my life, including my art. And so, I felt bored, and boring.
The artist in me was pissed! All that imagination just locked away in a box, because the Professional couldn't afford to make mistakes. And experiments led to mistakes. Mistakes cost money. The Professional didnt believe in wasting money.
Enter: The Breakdown.
Last month, I had a nice mental breakdown. Some therapists might call it a "quarter-life crisis." a new condition that affects twenty-somethings whose adolescence was held in suspension because of time spent in undergrad. "Postponed adults," they called us. We would experience certain freedoms and adult decisions much later in life than our non-collegiate counterparts.
Ok... sure.. whatever.
All I knew is that this boring, unmotivated, working-for-money, worrying-over-money creature I became was nothing like the woman I wanted to be when I was sixteen. I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be fun, and adventurous. I wanted to be well-traveled, and exotic, organic and artistic. I wanted to be unpredictable. I was exactly NOT that. And it sucked. A lot. Life could not go on this way.
I decided to take December off. How, pray tell, does a working adult take an entire month off? Careful planning. But that's another blog post altogether. I decided to go from three jobs to two, to relax more, "do nothing" more, and figure out, not only how I became the Professional, but how to get back to the Artist. Its been a real ride so far. At first, I woke up every day worrying about what work I should be doing. I had to make myself relax and convince myself that I did indeed have time to do "nothing."
It's only December 11th. I still have quite a bit of month to get through. But it's all baby steps. So far, I think I have learned a valuable lesson about not over-scheduling myself. I had the LONGEST to-do lists imaginable. And if I didn't finish, I usually berated myself for not being more productive. Now? I still make to-do lists, but I try to go back and cut them in half, putting the other half somewhere else. If I don't finish? Hey.... screw the list. Life is short. Kudos to whatever I DID get done. My next goal is to figure out a sensible marriage of my two halves. I cant survive just being an artist. And im unhappy just being a professional. But if I could figure out how to truly be the Professional Artist, I think I would be happy. As long as I remember to sometimes JUST be an artist, no professional. Its the only way to stay inspired!
So... I'm back to being a mermaid. From Venus, in fact. Yes... I'm a Venusian mermaid. My spaceship looks a lot like a giant soap bubble. Ha. And money? Well... a lot of different sources last month made me realize; I can always replace spent money. But I haven't figured out how to replace un-lived life.
XOXO
~Zuri
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