Hello

An artist does not need to be recognized by anyone other than herself to call herself an artist. A bit wordy, but I don’t imagine being an artist or a creative is clean, systematic and sparse, although it can be. That discussion is for another time, in another place, where I am over the shock of actually saying, quietly, in 1.7em font or so, that yes, I am an artist.

Note to the universe, I do not expect others to call me an artist, or even a writer. A photographer? Absolutely. But a writer? Now that is a bold, brave thing, bolder than J’Lo’s famous Versace dress (my fascination for her flawless firm neck and ageless looks is a constant time-pass). An artist? That is surely a sign of insanity and hubris.

Yet there is this kernel in me, unbuttered, raw and burnt, that is quietly screaming to come into existence and share. And there is a voice inside, greater than the great and powerful Oz, a figure that will never be able step away from that curtain, a figure that is melded into my pores, a voice that says, only share if it is great, if it will win awards, if it is pre-certified, stamped and approved 100% locally grown organic artistic work.

That voice has been my prison, Sysiphusian in nature, and I am slowly, very slowly, climbing out and breaking free. So to myself and all ye who enter, I say hello. And to J’Lo - hey girl.