I have been putting my art (from terrible to mediocre to not-bad) out into the world for about a decade now. Posting on this blog, sharing a webcomic, social media, all that. I did it to stop hiding. To teach myself to let go. I couldn’t let go of ideas – and I couldn’t move on to new dreams because I was still hanging on to all the unfinished ones. I did that until I started posting work online. Even if no one was reading this blog, putting it out into the world forced me to acknowledge that I had done my best with whatever it was. Set it down. Move on to something new.
But all this time, when I have been sharing my work, I have been doing it for you, not me. Whoever you are – even if no one is paying attention – I think about what each thing says about me as an artist. A person. I am doing it so I can make sense to you. THIS is the kind of artist I am. THIS is what I’m doing with my life.
The truth is, I have no idea what kind of artist I am. I’m figuring that out. I’m all over the place. I draw, I paint, I do comics, I sculpt, I tell stories, I write music and songs and poetry, all the things. I worry that if I put out there all that I am, in all my bizarre, random creativity – I’ll look like a nut.
So, showing work that “make sense” makes me feel brave. It makes other people think I’m successful. But I’m still hiding. I’m still insecure. Because being truly authentic is terrifying.