Artist Without A Cause

I’ve always had a creative streak and yet after trying on multiple hats, I’m still struggling to find my medium. As a formally gifted child, harnessing both my strong academic skills and nurturing my artistic skills felt urgent, I craved an outlet for everything although I would later discover through becoming self aware that I was just trying to be anything other than me. Harsh situations in childhood led to at age thirteen being hurled into mental health issues and a had a great need to express myself even though the deep sadness left me so devoid of confidence and energy to pursue anything in the way that all great artists do through determination and discipline.

As a pure perfectionist, it felt better to not do something rather than be bad at it as most are in their early stages. As an inpatient in a psychiatric hospital at thirteen, another patient gave me a copy of Elizabeth Wurtzel’s ‘Prozac Nation’, a book I came to call my quiet revolution. Little did I know how much my life would come to mirror hers, with the exception of after twenty five years of being on the couch I’ve never come close to remission. In the book she talked of the tyranny of unfulfilled potential, to be capable and at times full of promise, and yet to not have it realized leading to a deep chasm full of lows and emptiness.

I had an eye and fledgling talent for art, winning a national competition, and upon becoming friends with two artists in secondary school, threw myself into drawing, painting, and sculpture, immersing myself in manuals and going to galleries. There was promise, however a disability that wouldn’t come to the fore until later meant my hands and wrists were stiff, and I couldn’t get the fluid line, persistent sketching leaving me in pain. A water-colour painting still hangs in my parent’s bathroom, done at age fourteen, although little do they know the nude woman in it was an expression of my bisexual side. On discovering Nirvana, a spark was ignited and I took up guitar, wrecking my family’s heads as I thrashed out riffs making more noise than one person physically should be able to. My fingers were too clumsy for guitar and although I loved music, coming up with original songs even though I could write and sing never worked out. As part of occupational therapy on another inpatient stint I had a flare for jewellery making and design and thought afterward I would try to turn it into a business but gave up easily in my depressed state when a customer didn’t pay for a commissioned piece, thinking it was a sign it would never work.

Growing up Goth and wanting to go heavily alt, I lamented not being able to get the clothes I dreamed of, and developed a desire to sew. Although I wouldn’t try until I was in my twenties, I loved it and finally felt I’d found my niche. My designs were highly praised although my skills were pretty bad. A rather nasty woman I did a doomed internship under, said “neat is not your forte”, and while it knocked me back it lit a fire in me to prove her wrong. A talented friend asked me to work on a film as a costumer and I loved it, going on to make a name for myself being recommended from one crew to another and doing quite well. However it came to a dramatic halt when my body finally turned on me and my issues with chronic pain and health conditions became so strong I couldn’t stand or stay awake, never mind spending twelve hours on a film or theatre set. My life completely stalled, I underwent multiple surgeries, and still I’m crippled and in desperate need of an outlet.

Throughout my youth and as a high achieving academic, one thing that stood out was my writing skills. Early on I wanted to write, winning awards for it and debating, being able to persuade, and get my point across in ways people liked. In later life though sewing appealed more, feeling being an ideas person wasn’t enough, and I strongly wanted to have a physical manifestation such as a garment to deliver something from design to creation. My husband is an accomplished photographer, and I am in awe of his creativity and ingenious visual skills. He started early, first as an artist and then when he got more praise for his photos he went for it. Although he considers himself a punk photographer having dropped out of college and working with what’s available as opposed to studio set ups, his work and original ideas are widely regarded. He stuck with it, constantly evolving and developing for twenty years, which at times makes me feel inadequate for being so quick to abandon things. Alongside another friend,an internationally renowned photographer, I love talking about ideas and constantly learn from them. I feel somewhat uncomfortable in a lot of conversations about art because I don’t feel I know enough, but being a former lecturer he made the point that sometimes out of the mouths of those uneducated on a topic come fresh perspectives and great insights. In his mind, the greatest book about photography ever written, Susan Sontag’s ‘On Photography’, wasn’t written by a photographer so there’s potential for me to be more than I see myself as.

Both of them encourage me to write and stick with it even though I’m still finding my voice as I return to it. I feel uneasy as years of mental health have depleted me of confidence and any sense of worthiness but still I’m giving it a go and maybe it’ll be the right fit for me at long last.