Rage against the dying of the light


I enjoy my work. I’ve gotten to a place in which I am comfortable knowing that this is something I am good at and it’s worth doing. I am working on my craft. Every portrait I create is a step in the right direction.

But then there are the judges. Everyone who looks at my art and comments on the proportions, or on the eyes or the size of the head. I’m not a camera, or a glorified Xerox machine. And I’m not trying to be. I’m creating images that I see when I look at myself. A reflection of me as a whole in that moment of time. And honestly? I don’t really care if you like it or not. But I find myself over and over again trying to defend my work, trying to convince people that it is worth looking at and that yes, I meant the eyes to look like that. I’m obviously not a commercial artist. I’m not looking to create images that others want me to create. I’ve never been good with people telling me what to do….

I’m currently working on finding some wall space. A place with traffic to hang my collection. Not sure why besides it seems to be the next logical step in my journey. But damn, the life of an artist is not easy! And im only doing it very part time. No wonder I gave it up for so many years. No wonder there are so many artists out there never seen or acknowledged.

To me my art is equivalent to a dance. I’ve always admired dancers and how graceful and freeing it looks when watching a talented dancer. I have spent many lunch times dancing for my kids….joyfully throwing my limbs into the air in what I believe, to be a graceful, beautiful manner. Although I’m sure to anyone over the age of ten I look like a total awkward mess. It feels fantastic, and it entertains the children so I guess it’s “mission accomplished”. It’s like that with my art only I have the confidence to know that how it feels to create it will translate for at least one viewer.

And another thing….who has time for this shit???

With my motherly duties, house duties, job duties, my fitness regiment duties…my art should really eventually end up in the toilet with all my daughters’ ” dooty”. But I refuse to sit in front of the television and allow the “waiting of my life to interrupt my day”. I refuse to go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, Rage against the dying of the light.



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