I have always known that I am an artist. I have an artist’s eyes, an artist’s soul, and an artist’s heart. I see the world in value and shape, and I experience the world in swirls of cadmium and ochre. I question everything. I doubt nothing. I know that truth can only be found once you strip away your personal bias.

However, I haven’t been acting like an artist for many years.

Although my heart is in the right place, I have told myself that being an artist means being alone, depressed, or crazy. I have shied away from criticism and ignored synchronicity that would allow me to further my craft. I was scared. I AM scared.

I have spent hours cleaning my house, programming, cooking, designing, working out… all the things I was supposed to do. I fell down the rabbit hole of the cult of productivity. But what did I produce? Some money? Optimized freetime to spend scrolling through social media? Vague 3D renders practicing a skill that I never planned on using to express any more than that I’d learned how to use a tool adequately?

What’s the purpose of being able to make art if you don’t? If an artist feels movement in her soul and doesn’t create a painting, was it ever there in the first place?

I’ve been an artist my whole life, yet I have almost nothing to show for this self proclaimed identity. I haven’t picked up my favorite medium, oil paints, in over ten years. I’ve made excuses. “It’s too expensive”. “I don’t have time.” “I don’t have space.”

That’s all a lie.

The truth is, I’m scared that I’ll put all this hard work in and yet nothing will come of it, or that it doesn’t matter how hard I practice, that everything I make will be unnecessary or vague. What if I don’t have an impact on that endless sea of artistic voices? What if I never find my own voice?

Well you can’t find your voice if you never open your mouth to speak. So, dearest reader, prepare yourself. Today marks the start of a long, painful, beautiful, horrible, captivating journey. I’m calling my shot. I’m a painter. Let’s do this thing.