I’ve always loved sketching, but from early days, I’ve felt I wasn’t good enough to call myself an artist. “Oh, I just sketch these dumb little things. Really. Anyone could do this.”
And judging myself against Michelangelo or Van Gogh or Matisse, I’m probably not much of an artist. But is that a reasonable yardstick? Of course, when does someone like me use reasonable measurements? (I am the WORST! or the BEST! with no middle ground.)
In my sobriety, I’ve learned a modicum of discipline and keep a sketch pad in my purse, in the car, at my desk. Pretty much always within arm’s reach. And amazingly, the practice of drawing has let me improve my art. Go figure, huh?
Last month, I passed a church rummage sale, saw a beautiful drafting table, and stopped to inquire about the price. I was amazed when I told one of the volunteers that I was interested because I’m an artist.
I am an artist.
Not the best. Not the worst. But for the sheer love of drawing and creating. How lucky I am to have a craft that lets me get lost in the enjoyment of pursuing and improving it!
OK. And here’s the crazy, almost guilty pride I have today. Two people asked me to make something for them. I am a commissioned artist! (If I do the art…I know!) I have had so much fun drawing the designs and planning the work. One is a stained glass window (very small but a window nonetheless) and the other is a glass inlaid bench.
I’ve had to get sober, learn consistency, practice discipline, and be willing to show my art to others in order to find out a corner of who and what I am. Did I mention that I am north of 55? Is it ever too late? Gosh! I hope not! There might be new discoveries when I am north of 60. Who knew?