“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


Self Pity + Art = Me, Today.

Sometimes you wonder why you do it all, what you have to say, what you have to show, you ask yourself just what is this artist business, and why is it all those other people know what their artist statement is, and all you know is that yours is about "the stillness surrounding movement", whatever on Earth that really means, today it means nothing, you feel you're just making up something because you have to. You feel like a damned artist on these days, one that's really struggling to stay true to this feeling inside, but is skirting around it, and you think you should take down the pretty pictures of the pretty trees, because that has nothing to do with your grand artistic vision, don'tcha know, it's just girly stuff and daily life and you feel that you should be serious, should buckle down and only talk about art, art, art, although dear God, how tiresome that would be. You flit across the internet and you are amazed, disheartened, jealous at the things people call art, when it's not, it's not even close, and you know it, but they're selling it and they're selling a lot of it, and you show it to your ever-wonderful boyfriend and you say this! this is why I am poor, why I will never be a successful artist, because it's not art, people don't want art, they want this, and I can't do this, oh I can do it, but I can't do it and pretend it is art, pretend it is something special, can't put my name on it and be proud. And you have the same discussion with a close friend, both of you in the midst of discovering the truth about others, her career not art, but still the same, full of people who call themselves professionals but who are not, not really, stories leak out, and neither you nor your friend can understand this, this all show thing, it's all show, it's all a great facade, a great building, a great website, and all this time you've thought they were better than you, knew more than you, after all, look at their image, their business, it looks so good, and she despairs not quite as much, but despairs nonetheless. And the questioning begins, those questions, you know them, should I just do that easy stuff, pretend it is what it isn't and hope none of my old art professors ever see it?, can I live with myself?, because you are exhausted with trying to make an actual living as yourself, but deep inside, actually not all that deep, it's an easy call, you know you won't, you know you will stay true to yourself, and you vow only serious artistic stuff on your blog from now on, although you know that's not about to happen, so you vow you will work more, and you know right now that's not going to happen, your days and nights already filled with obligations you will not turn away from, you will not turn a cat whose days are dwindling from the comfort of your lap to work on a painting, and the truth is that there are days those pieces of pink flowers on your blog are a comfort to you, and it breaks your heart, you feel silly and pathetic and self-pitying, you feel ridiculous. But that's the truth of the matter, you know it, you've known it from the moment you started typing this, it is just a day of jealousy and pettiness, and a day of wishing you were easier, that you were someone else with less artist in her, and you don't even care how vain that sounds because it feels so true. You remember you have that first sentence of a book that appeared from nowhere, thrown into your lap by your muse - there is room next to the cat for a sentence or two. And you breathe out, you are almost finished here, typing all this feeling-sorry-for-myself, and you know it will be okay, you know you are okay, you remember what that artist statement is all about, and you accept the fact that you are who you are. And that you are just fine.

UPDATE - Please see the next post. :)
I should take this post down, I really should,
but will leave it as a reminder to myself.
i am such a baby


  1. Deb
    "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple." dr.seuss

    you know the simple answer,
    being true to yourself
    your life
    your ART
    is what makes you breathe
    and in the end
    air is much more valuable than cash

    Hugs and sorry for the bad day

  2. i do not like the feelings ...
    but i understand them

  3. with my magical wand waving...."gremlins be gone and leave debi alone"

    or maybe a good can of wasp spray to kill them in mid flight ?

    or write down all those bad feelings and thoughts which I refer to as gremlins {in case I lost you above} and burn them at the stake ?

    can I come, too ? we could fill a whole dumpster and ask the firemen to stand by just in case :)

    and then when it's all over, we can dance, K?

  4. Anna - I am just whining today. Poor me. LOL! I am fine.

    ELK - I hate these feelings. Hate the pettiness, hate knowing this about myself. I laugh because I was ignoring all the people who are wonderful and make fun, silly, fabulous art, and concentrating on the bad stuff out there. Very one tracked of me. :)

    Beth - They are gone, they really are, at least for today! It's ridiculous to let the success of badness get to me - I need to just pay attention to the stuff & the people that makes me believe in magic & miracles & life. Luckily there are tons of y'all out there.

    I am just a crybaby today. Ignore me. :)



come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .