Being an artist

I don't know why or how, but somehow I had forgotten what being an artist really means.

In all its simplicity, it means organising your life in a way that allows you to actually be one. And I don't mean simply calling yourself an artist, although I think that's a wonderful first step. I mean the practical reality of it. You have to practise your craft.

It really isn't that complicated.

Yet somehow, it isn't that simple either.

Thinking about being an artist and actually being one are two entirely different worlds. But how does one move from one to the other? Preferably from thinking to being. Although the opposite can happen too: you can become an artist without knowing it, and then, once you begin thinking about it, forget how to be one.

Thinking is dangerous.

Or perhaps a certain kind of thinking is.

One must be mature enough to think well. Otherwise, thinking can quietly take over your life. At least, that has been my experience.

Because once, I simply began painting without thinking of myself as an artist. I painted because I felt I needed to. To me, that is the very essence of being an artist.

Then the thoughts arrived.

What does this mean? What does this make me? How can I turn this into something? How do I become an artist?

Those were the dangerous paths my mind began to wander. Slowly, they pulled me away from the simple joy of making.

It is funny how I became so identified with being an artist that I almost forgot to be one.

When I finally stepped back and honestly looked at my life, I realised I had spent far more time thinking about being an artist than simply allowing myself to be one.

I never stopped creating.

The obstacles always came afterwards.

Those dangerous thoughts:

What do I do with all of this?

It wasn't an abstract question either. My home filled with paintings. Art supplies multiplied. My hard drive and camera roll overflowed with images. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of creation, and I had no idea what to do with it all.

That became my greatest source of anxiety.

What do I do with all of this?

Perhaps nothing was wrong at all.

Perhaps the reality of working as an artist had simply begun to dawn on me.

Painting had always been my safe place. But now another invitation appeared: painting not only for myself, but as a way of bringing something into the world.

That is an entirely different journey.

For the first time, I had to admit to myself that I didn't just want to be an artist, I wanted to work as one.

That meant believing, at least a little, that what I was creating mattered. And where belief was missing, I had to slowly cultivate it.

Looking back, I think this was the moment I temporarily lost my connection.

Everything became so mental.

This next stage shook something deep within me. It wasn't only fear. It was excitement, hope, possibility, all arriving at once. The dream suddenly felt close enough to touch, and my nervous system didn't quite know what to do with that.

Maybe this transition, from simply being an artist to becoming a working artist, is something many people experience.

Or maybe it was never really about becoming a working artist at all.

Maybe it was about identity.

The more I focused on the identity of being an artist, the more disconnected I became from the work itself.

When I simply paint, something moves naturally.

When I obsess over who I am, I become stuck.

So perhaps the danger was never thinking itself.

Perhaps it was identification.

Perhaps my real challenge has been my tendency to become fascinated with identity—with understanding myself, defining myself, making sense of myself.

That is slightly uncomfortable to admit.

Because maybe the problem was never that I didn't know what to do with all the paintings.

Maybe I simply didn't know how to bring my whole self along for the journey.

Not just my thoughts.

But my emotions.

My body.

My nervous system.

Come to think of it, I don't think I knew how to hold all the feelings that arrived once this dream began feeling real.

And maybe that is the lesson.

Being, and working, as an artist requires your whole body.

It is a full-body career.

Your thoughts, your emotions, your body, your intuition: they all have to learn to move together. Otherwise, you risk becoming a talking head, trapped inside your own ideas.

But the opposite is also true.

If you only remain in the body; painting, creating, following inspiration, without ever allowing yourself to grow into the practical reality of sharing your work, another kind of suffering can appear.

Unless, of course, you never wanted that path to begin with.

But I do.

Being an artist, then, is not only about practising your craft.

It is about integrating yourself into the life you are living, and into the body that is living it.

Self-care is real artistry.

At least, that is what this path has been teaching me.

When your whole self is behind your vision, and your craft is supported by a willingness to work, something shifts.

Artistry requires the whole of you.

Just as you require the whole of art to move through you.

It is a symbiosis.

Perhaps forgetting, overthinking, even over-identifying are not failures after all.

Perhaps they are simply part of becoming.

Being an artist is, in many ways, about becoming deeply honest with yourself.

Because the magical reality of art also turns out to be wonderfully practical. It asks for structure. Discipline. Courage. Patience. And a surprising amount of joy.

Looking back, I think I now understand how I forgot to be an artist.

I forgot because I became captivated by the identity instead of the craft.

And perhaps I needed to.

Because only by losing that connection could I find my way back to it, this time from a more whole place.

In the end, being an artist has not only taught me how to be one.

It has also taught me how not to.

And with a grateful heart, I accept both lessons; from the mystical and the practical worlds of art.