'Featured Artist'

Brought out 'the collection' to the public for the first time since only child was born.  Most of it had been rolled up in bubble wrap not unlike an unfinished puzzle, until I finally brought them out to look at again after years tucked away.  I was grateful they had remained intact.  There were many opportunities for them to have become lost; they surfaced at the right time.  I felt like asking for forgiveness for not taking better care as to their whereabouts and keeping them closer.  My child was and still is more important. 


They were and have been comfort objects in the absence of a childhood that took place in part elsewhere.  I was forgiven; they looked no different than when they were stored originally, even though at times I couldn't say exactly where they were during too many transitions and traumas.


Some were sold for amounts I didn't want to know about, at charitable events where I couldn't dictate their value or what they went for.  There were no photos taken.  Each was unique and could not be duplicated.  Sturdy, and assembled to withstand the test of time, the artistic appeal and uniqueness went to new owners that I can only hope will continue to cherish them.  Each was special, when they were made, and when they were passed on to 'the greater good'.


The first showing was a holiday event.  There was much appreciation in ways that could not have been anticipated.  They are priced as low as could be competitive in similar markets for popular items that have not been made by hand, with components that have no copies.  I was happy for the exposure and reception of the concept, though holiday shoppers went for lower prices and more novelty, which left the day not as productive as had been hoped at the time.


That day paved the way for a more mature artists only event, to which I was invited personally.  I didn't respond at first, caught up in more immediate concerns.  After a few days and being reminded of the event, it felt more appropriate than not to follow up and actually commit to at least an inquiry as to if participation was still an option.  I was quite welcome was the response, not knowing what happened between the time of the agreement and the event itself.


I was affectionately 'scolded' for not identifying as a 'real' artist, having shown up sans business cards. All inquiries for custom commissions were entered into phones or scribbled on paper.  There was a purchaser, for more than the previous event, for which one sold also for its asking price.  I was again pleased for the positive recognition as much as the appreciative patron, and for those that expressed interest in becoming patrons.


What I didn't know was that the curator had declined other artists who produced anything similar to what I was doing.  For this medium or genre, it was me only, a 'winner' in a category I only found out during the event had been represented by a single artist, with others representing other mediums of one or two each.  I'm so non competitive I may not have committed had I known there were others in the running, and that my work was favored and selected by the curators.


Even with a fine arts degree, it's still considered 'outsider art', as the actual medium was self taught and developed apart from the discipline of performance art for which I had been in a formal curriculum.  The common theme is simply knowing what art is supposed to be, following the constructs that turn feelings and expressions into different forms to be seen and observed by others for their separate interpretations.


In what is by comparison a very short journey in the world of visual art from personal perspective, I've been objective enough to recognize what I produce is actually art, and that what is termed art by others is comparable, even by 'established' artists whose work fetches much higher value in the 'more sophisticated' art world.  Sometimes it's simply a matter of exposure and strategy, or connections, not only in terms of people.  In series of events.


So I've been donned with a certain identity in a certain environment.  I've been through too much to have any arrogance whatsoever about what I seem to be merely an instrument for, having been informed some 'artists' are more 'challenging' to work with.


Those who have become 'first patrons' did so as much as from liking me as much as what was produced that only I could do, or 'finish'.  Other artists have said in the same space their art sometimes if not always creates itself; they are only the ones who make parts into a whole form, as if guided by a separate inspiration not of themselves.  I can't disagree. 


I've never really gone to any great lengths to be liked by a particular 'audience', and once of a certain age some find authenticity attracts it's own followers.  I don't even like the term 'followers', unless most of them have accomplished what I still look forward to being able to do at some point in the future, not far away.  Many follow as what they see appears we are equal, or complimentary of each other.  I can only hope to fulfill that expectation more often.

Revelations

Not that bad a parent, not that bad an artist, not that bad a writer, not that bad a comedian.  Bad at self esteem, self worth, and faith.  As much as I preach, can't take my own advice, or unaware I wasn't, until out in the world, paying attention to what's going on with an ear to the ground. 


It wasn't me; it was the culture.  A culture that will point the finger at anyone who isn't sure where their place is.




I've been here before, at a different stage in life, looking through different eyes: young, ignorant eyes.  Thinking the world is as we wish it to be.  It isn't.  There will be things we will never understand. First Corinthians 2:9.




I understand that I've charged too little, asserted too little, insisted too little, and followed through too little.  I do finish what I start, there's just to many irons in the fire, which slows down all of them.  It could be the general family curse: jack of all trades and master of none.  The truth is I'm master of a few, and been distracted from narrowing the plan.




I'm told there is a plan I'm not aware of, from a Higher Power.  I get it.  I'm more patient over time, and more grateful.  It doesn't stop the anxiety and fear, or the trauma that's ingrained that kicks in like an involuntary reflex at the worst possible times.  I'm paralyzed and frozen, conscious of my surroundings and unable to move, except I can move, only in very slow motion.




Keep up appearances.  The look of being poised, collected, and perhaps a little too calm, or even aloof isn't what it looks like.  It's paralysis, an inability to act quickly, it's less indecisiveness than being stuck in slow motion.



I've been depressed, which comes back randomly, when events seem to negate all efforts or progress: the reason for so many irons in the fire.  If one gets shut down, there's another in the pipeline. 




So the revelation is I was interrupted, which I knew.  What I didn't know was the fog I walk through that's almost a dreamlike state as often as not.  It's a survival mechanism that no longer serves me.  Can I shake it by will alone?  No.  That's what Higher Power is for, when I remember to ask.

No Resolutions

Once a year is too infrequent; and overkill it being a birthday month, on a holiday.  In a continuous state of resolving, to get past barriers.  I don't envy those who make resolutions, even the ones who successfully stick to them and permanently change habits (the rare few).  I just can't relate to that kind of life, where a resolution is an annual thing.  There's no right or wrong.  For some of us, the opportunities come more loudly and something must be done, or it could be gone. 

Maybe it's enviable to be in a place where changing something once a year is all that's needed.  In hindsight, it seems a bit unusual.  Perhaps one resolution begets another we just never hear about.  To know someone well who actually makes one and moves forward is probably to have heard a story of how one conscious change leads to others that add up more over the year.  That sounds more realistic.

Of themselves, they're just campy, and sound weak on the surface, more than marriage as likely as not ending in divorce.  Resolve, once a year.  The more it's said, the less realistic it seems. 

However, actually keeping one, having made one, and what happens after is something we rarely hear about, unless we seek it out, or listen.  Another blip on the screen, that must have many others to follow in order to stay alive...like a heart monitor.  It's real when it creates a momentum all its own.

Waiting, or not

Can't remember a time when my timeline matched everyone else's; my child and I are in sync: we don't procrastinate on priorities. Even without constant updates, it seems I'm regularly ahead of what others take time with, or I'm moving things along when no one else seems to be (except for occasionally not posting 'on time' when other things are being attended to). This is all only perception; my mind doesn't seem to stop.

"Massive Action" is part of a quote by a friend that is neither new nor old. I act like I write, in very long sprints, rarely if ever comfortable resting. There's no time for rest at an age when most are beginning to wind down, there's no stopping now. There are no options, only to keep moving forward.

Everything is so fragile, and timely. It's raining out. Pouring. Glad to be inside, though not for long. Someone is still uncomfortable, much more so than I. I feel them almost as much as if it were me, sometimes as much: the reason stopping or resting is not an option. Someone cannot speak for themselves. Someone cannot say what they really mean. It isn't safe to do so. This is more common than most are aware or think about.

The right words at the right time; the right information at the right moment can mean life or death, or at best an entirely different outcome, which can go in either direction. Uncertainty is only a given, what causes fear is moment to moment. Some claim it's all from within; having seen so much, even that theory remains in question. Those who have not experienced or remember what happens in childhood for many can only comment on popular thought. What's hidden is the fabric of the landscape, like the soil that holds the trees. Never mind the forest; that's just the surface. Seems only the unconscious knows the surface isn't all there is, most of the time.