what do you call yourself?

i woke up early early after a long night of strange dreams... most likely provoked by the movie i watched last night- 7 pounds with will smith. it is probably one of the saddest movies i've ever seen and will smith is such a fine actor (i don't care what anyone says) that when he cries, i cry and that movie just ripped me to shreds. but it is a wonderful story- full of heart-break and compassion and the human urge to seek redemption... and how maybe we go about finding that redemption in ways that no one else can understand or agree with... a definite tear-jerker but that phrase seems so reductive. the movie is profound. in spite of being able to see what the next twist in the story would be, i found the acting and writing of the movie to be stunning. absolutely heart-wrenching. and beautifully done. sad, sad, sad. you are forewarned.

and so, i had strange dreams. none of which i can remember. i got out of bed and made coffee and by 6am i was scribbling, scribbling,scribbling in my notebook. no stopping until 7:01 when i finally looked up and saw that the night was finally gone and that icy-blue was pouring in. traffic was moving on the 2 lane highway and the birds and zany squirrels where moving too. and me, out on my stoop, head and hand crammed in my notebook, feeling as twisted up as all the branches above me...

first thing, i worried that somewhere there's a rule that says i have to pick one or the other: painting or writing. i know this isn't true. no where close to true but it seems to be that a person generally favors one practice over all others. and this morning i realized that i've gotten to the point where painting and writing seem like the same thing to me. they are indistinguishable in terms of practice. they function so much the same way (to me) that i started, stupidly, worrying about titles: Writer. Painter. which one am i? can i be both? is that allowed? can i call myself a writer even though my writing is largely secret? can i call myself a Writer just because of my love for the craft? or does it take more than that? and if i call myself Writer, does Painter suffer for it? can't i just be a regular ol' artist with a big ol' umbrella that all the things i lay my hand to can fit under?

why i started worrying about all this, i'm not sure. and i know it sounds like a silly concern and that i must be wearing my crazy pants today... but if i just say it out-right, if i say it honestly, my concern is this: i don't want to be bad at either art form. i want them both. and i want to be good at them both. no one wants to be bad at something they love.

i think all artists feel this way at times. it isn't insecurity, it's the weight of concern for something cherished. i want to protect these things. i want to protect my practice. and sometimes i worry that i'm floating and i just grab at whatever comes closest. that i am not strict enough. that i am not diligent enough. that i have too many ideas and that satisfying them all means i'm a "jack of all trades, master of none". a fear born in me during art-school. this is the dominant mentality there. if you are a painter, you paint. if you are a writer, you write. don't stray. hone your skills at one thing or you'll be bad (mediocre) at everything. and i fought against that mentality the entire time i was there. the entire time. art school is a wonderful, wonderful place and it's where i learned how to really, truly care about ART. it's where i built my stamina. but this fear was born there as well and i've wrestled with it, off and on, ever since... even though i don't agree with it. my favorite artists are artists who take a multi-disciplinary approach to their work, who aren't limited by genre and let the art, the idea, take whatever form is best. those are the artists i look up to. they are fearless and they trust their practice endlessly. i am trying to leech some of their bravery and just keep going. keep chipping away. keep learning. gain strength. they are the elite. they shine. they are gold.

i hope, one day, to find myself in that lineage of artists who did what loved and didn't second-guess a thing... least of all, their own eyes and hands.