Accusations and Criticism

It occurs to me that internal critics are birthed by external ones.

Accusations are first heard by the ears, before they echo in the mind, magnified in the heart until it deafens the soul, disorienting the spirit .

And disoriented, it wobbles in insecurity, unable to move forward, hindering us from giving and taking our best, and accepting what will bring us joy, even when it is freely given and freely offered.

Even if we have experienced it before and knows what it brings us, it is that belief ithat one is underserving that stops us from walking a path we know leads to away from pain, and into light.

I remember drawing much in the time before a friend looked at my sketchpads and said, " Why is it that we artists can't afford materials, and you can when you're not even an artist?" I do not remember what I answered, I only remember that I stopped drawing.

I suppose it is why I have six blocks of Fabriano watercolor paper, and five of the Arches ones that remain unused, a number of watercolor sets and paints that remain untouched, and three Moleskines that have nothing but my name in them.

And I have noticed of late that I can, indeed, draw, not very well, not as well as when I drew every day; but I am improving with practice. But I can only draw on scratch paper and used office paper or the back pages of my sister's old exercise sketchbook, using ballpoint, or regular office issue pencils and signpens. All of these are cheap' they will not be wasted when a good artist could put them to much better use. Put a piece of "expensive" paper in front of me and I freeze, put artist-grade paints in front of me and the colours turn muddy, put a charcoal pencil in my hand and my palms sweat, which turns the paper into a sheet with blobs and blotches of black and gray.

I cannot even bring myself to sign up for an online class, much less a live one, there is a fear of being told by professionals that I am talentless, and have wasted my money, that I am better off writing because that would be a more productive use of my time.

It would not be so bad if the paralysis did not extend to my writing, because, after all, that is my job and what I have been known to be since I was eight. But it does.

I can only write and draw in the notebooks I make, not in a Moleskine. And while my sisters point out that those notebooks I sew probably cost more than Moleskines in terms of my time, the fact that they were created by me makes them less valuable, and as such, unintimidating and more useable.

But I want to draw. I want to paint. I want to see. And then I remember what I told my copywriter, the one whose previous bosses had asked him if he was sure he was a writer and was thus doubting it himself, "Do you want to write? Then write anyway. Labels are useless."

So I draw anyway, and I paint anyway, despite not being an artist. And the fact that I am surrounded by real ones will not stop me.

After all, I am also not a great chef, but that does not stop me from boiling an egg when I am hungry and must eat.

Perhaps one day I shall try it on a real stove. And perhaps one day I shall use my real art materials.

Perhaps.