What defines an artist? The very word artist conjures ideals of some long haired hippie, smoking a filter less cigarette, covered in paint or some kind of other medium. For me it was my grandma. Art is subjective. I can’t tell you how many times that I’ve herd that spoken from some know it all intellectual. That phrase is just another way for someone to insult you without actually insulting you. Creativity is my affliction. It can’t be cured until I’ve got it out of me. Purging the artistic flow of energy, into something beautiful or mesmerizing. With painting you either have talent or you don’t. It’s simple. It comes easily. After a bottle of Patron!
For me though it was a cherished memory from a time long past. Down a long dirt road, sat an old white farm house. My grandparents house on my dad’s side. My grandmother, in particular painted all of her life. Though she never was trained formally in the art of painting, she was a natural and did it to pass the time. The smell of the oil paint, the feel of the brush between my fingers, it was like an old friend that I had not met yet. Countless times I would get in trouble messing with her things, but her paints and canvas she encouraged me to use. Some of my favorites are the old standby’s like Picasso’s Starry Night, or Klimt’s The Kiss.
I try and paint every week at least. But still to this day I have trouble finishing them. It is something that I am reminded of every time I step into my garage. All of my unfinished paintings starring back at me screaming “finish meeee!”