I am not an artist.
An artist is an enthusiast, someone who creates something intentionally, whole-heartedly.
I create “art” for the sake of a grade, in a class, taught by an artist, surrounded by artists.
I do not make for a feeling, for thoughts or ideas, emotions, or to tell a story.
Just follow the syllabus.
This is not to say that I do not enjoy creating art, because I do.
Does this make me a fake?
I enjoy the process of bringing into existence a new form, a new shape or object.
I do so without an ultimate goal.
I create in the moment, without thought or emotion, no plan.
Only process.
Adding and attaching.
Subtracting and erasing.
Working.
Touching, feeling, breathing.
Moving.
I care only for aesthetic.
Does this make me superficial?
Only skin deep.
My work has texture, pores or facets if you will.
Caves and mountains and valleys and boulders.
This probably stems from being raised in nature.
It is clean and healthy.
Trees and fresh air.
The smell of wood.
Blisters from working the land.
Working the material.
Always tidy, neat, and very particular.
Like my life.
Never messy.
Life is messy.
It is beauty.
It is large and voluminous.
It is bright and obnoxious.
Or white as snow.
It is intriguing to the viewer.
It is secretive and revealing, at the same time.
Yet, has no meaning.
Maybe that means something.
My creations are never gory.
Never dark.
Far from depressing or sad.
Maybe a little dramatic.
Light-hearted and carefree.
Simple objects.
Clean lines.
Obsessive compulsive.
It is maddening.
I am creative.
But.
I do not want to be an artist.
I want to be surrounded by artists.
Surrounded by creative minds.