There has to be that many artworks I have produced. Some are lost… Like the line of kingfishers I drew on a twig, all fluffy and sulky looking. I moved to Wales and forgot that the picture was in a shop. There they remained and now I have no idea where it is. Did it sell? Did the owner keep it? Did they burn it?
I don’t know. It is a lost artwork.
Then there are the ones I left at colleges and universities. The scraps that I did trying to get to the final piece. I have littered them behind me like a hundred falling leaves.
Sure I have some work from the past, but I can count them on my hands…
Most have been sold.
Some thrown away.
All the pencil strokes and paint flicks… Millions of millions. The shavings and empty paint tubes. Bristles from brushes. Ink nibs.
They all litter my life and tell a story of creativity.
I was having a manicure the other day and I started to get self conscious. On my right hand my second finger is slightly twisted and has a build up of bone from all the art I have produced. I apologized.
“I’m an artist.”
She smiled and gave me no reaction…
But I think after all the drawing that was the first time I had admitted to anyone I am an artist in its own right. I say I illustrate my own books but I rarely say I’m an artist.
I write and I’m an artist… That is usual. But this time I left out the writing part. It was strange. And liberating.
What am I?
Can someone be both?
I sure hope so because I am an author. I am an artist.