A Mind Full of Questions

The last couple weeks have been pretty chill. And intimidating, discouraging, and terrifying.

But nothing has really even happened.

I’ve been returning from  my figure drawing classes exhausted and pensive, having spent the last three hours keeping waves of inferiority at bay. My classmates have much more experience in not only drawing, but in technique, design, color, an so on–having taken many more classes still unknown to me.

My artistic education has mainly consisted of derping around with a computer art tablet for a year, finding what references or tools I can and practicing when I have the motivation. Granted, I’ve been drawing and writing obsessively through the duration of this time, and my work has seen drastic improvement since then–but I’m still so far behind.

Thursday afternoon, I attended an artist talk as part of an assignment for my drawing classes, in which an artist whose work was being featured at the university gave an informal presentation about his art and methods. As he talked, I wondered yet again what I was getting myself into. 

And then we went to see the gallery of his work. I silently threaded through the crowd, taking in the artwork, devoid of companions to discuss it with, trying to figure out how one properly appreciates art. The pieces in the gallery were fascinating, but I had to force myself to really look at them. I felt so out of place.

I tried to mask my growing surliness until I had made my rounds through the gallery, and then marched straight back to my dorm. I shut the door behind me and paced. Angry. Asking God “Why?” over and over again. Why did I feel this way? Who was I to think I ever had any place in the world of the visual arts? Why was I embarrassing myself like this? Why did I want this? Why was this so important to me?

I’ve always wanted to tell stories, and I still do–very much so. Create characters, engage, inspire, encourage.

But who am I to have such audacity?

The last couple weeks, I’ve been uttering, “What am I doing?” as a stress relief–laughing off my discomfort and insecurity. But that night, it was an honest, furious question. What have I done? What in the world do I think I’m doing?

Where will this path end up? Will my decisions this year burn me in the end?

This is just the next stage, I suppose. Life can’t always be optimistic ambition and inspiring happenstances. Sometimes, we’re sent reeling, asking “Why?” But challenge is part of the package.

Good things are worth fighting for, after all.

Greetings, I’m a Science Major. How do art?

I didn’t expect to feel so strange as soon as I walked through the door: so naive and babyish–like my presence was confusing and unexpected. I guess it would have been, since, until a couple semesters ago, I had spent the majority of my time around the science department.

This semester, I had decided to take the suggestion of a friend and enroll in Figure Drawing, an upper-division drawing class. I had finished the prerequisite, after all.

Monday evening of syllabus week, I hurried to class in the dark, looking forward to actually having an art class with friends. As it turns out, having friends in the room made it even more intimidating when the realization hit me that I had inserted myself into a class of upper-division art majors. Perhaps a little too audacious for comfort.

I wanted to be there. I want to learn to be able to tell stories well through both the written and visual arts. But still–what business did I have being there, griped a sinister voice in the back of my mind. Who was I to get involved in classes for people as talented and skilled as art majors? Was it even my place to have so naively decided to take this path?

Yet here I stand, announcing to the world little by little that I have determined to pursue writing and illustration when I could have played it safe and become a physical therapist. Even as competitive as the physical therapy programs are nowadays, that option was my comfort zone. 

As the professor explained the course and its requirements, the class drew a still life. I had gone through this earlier that afternoon in Drawing II, and I was determined to apply the advice I had received then to make round two better. After an hour or so, we took a break, getting up and roving around the drawing horses to look at each others’ work–an exercise I’m still uncomfortable with. I hoped no one looked at mine for too long. My sketch had improved, and I was mildly happy with it, but also very disappointed. The pieces of the other artists burst with life and expression and style. Mine felt quite a bit simpler and more rigid. A “good try.”

Mediocrity breathed uncomfortably down my neck. I have so much catching up to do…but I guess this also means I have a great deal of room to improve. “If your dreams don’t scare you…” right?

I have no doubts as to whether this was a mistake or not. I ask myself over and over again, “What am I doing?” but more as an effort of stress relief. Not that I’m actually having concrete second thoughts.

I already know I’m most insecure in art and writing classes, as those are the subjects I care most about. They are areas in which I most want the skills to evoke meaning and purpose from my work, and not to be overshadowed by crippling inadequacies.

I think about how much I will learn and improve this semester, and I am determined to plow through any amount of intimidation to get there. In theory, at least. I’ll take the waves as they come, and buckling down to receive them should grow at least a little easier with time.

I may be naive. I may be insane. But this is what I want.

And even in the midst of my insecurity, I feel good about this decision.

 

Onward

I felt somewhat displaced New Year’s Day–like an empty-nester, my friend observed.

Normally, 2013 ends quietly with me sitting on the couch with whichever members of my family are awake, watching the ball drop in New York City. Afterward, I step out the front door to see if any of the surrounding neighbors’ fireworks are visible, and then return to whatever I usually do after midnight.

This New Year’s Eve looked about the same, except that it was far different than my previous December 31sts. Earlier that afternoon, on the last day of 2013, I finished the first rough draft of my book (synopsis can be found here). It is the longest work I have ever completed. I have been seriously pursuing this story for about a year and a half, and finally, phase one has been attained.

I’m attempting to leave the draft alone for a week, an endeavor I’ve already failed once. I worry I didn’t accomplish what I had been aiming for, that I didn’t stay true to characters, didn’t make them compelling enough, made certain plot points too convenient, littered the work with painfully unnecessary scenes…and the fretting continues. I want to go back immediately and seek to remedy everything I’ve potentially overlooked or messed up, but I need to wait for it to cool off before picking it back up again.

So, now it’s 2014, and I’m overloading with excitement to see what the next 12 months will entail.

With the pursuit of publishing my debut novel, a three-week trip abroad to Hong Kong, Vietnam, and South Korea in the spring, summer research in Arizona, upcoming search for art schools, and the development of my next book, this year is shaping up to be unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

And I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Ridiculously overwhelmed.

It will be terrifying and challenging, but most definitely one to remember.

Praise God. The glory is His.