It was quite natural for me to transform into a fully pledged visual arts geek throughout my life. At the wake of my brain, my mother put into the grip of my hands a pencil or a pen and anything to write on. Of course, at the age of three I wasn’t able to compose essays and so, I resorted to shapes, colors and lines.
Ever since the obsession started, it already had its dark side. When I was still a toddler, the occasional production of good stuff was already in contrast to the negative effects of an artistic streak, which were usually forms of vandalism on expensive books and furniture.
Now, as a teenager, I’ve become overly imaginative and individualistic. Artistic is more of a lifestyle than an aspect in life. My fandom with art inspired a way of freelance thinking. This attitude of mine has caused many an argument. I seldom compromise and usually stand out.
Another is the unrelenting passion towards the arts which also has its backfire. “The end justifies the means,” a book said and I agree. Oh, but to be able to produce great finery requires sacrifices including those you did not expect ruin. Artists in a split-second after possessing their materials can become autistic perfectionists that not everyone finds admirable.
In the process of being devoted in creating something aesthetically satisfying not only to the viewers but also to me, the creator, I become an irritable person. I normally would disregard hunger and sleep if I were in the middle of making something. In context to that, I would disregard other external forces such as other humans as well. I’d tell them “later” or even worse if they do something that really affected the outcome of my work, which would be: “Go away!” in a sincerely pissed voice. .
When I look back though, I’m glad. I love all my works and I appreciate how they continue to evolve. When you start saying that your yesterday’s work sucked, it comes with great pride because of the fact that you are better now. But! I must admit that I’ve dented a lot of relationships because of my artwork. If I don’t piss them while I’m in my mode of being a Michelangelo under the ceiling, I would probably be thoroughly defensive about my works towards them after.
Every artsy person knows that the temper comes with the perks and I’m not so sure any of us are really willing to change anything about it. You see, this temper pushes us to improve, to concentrate, and to find meaning in our freelanced and almost directionless lives. Arts to us gives us something to look forward in, it’s somewhere we feel insured. Our artworks are our offspring, our self worth. So I guess that I’m really content with my artistic temper as long as I’d be wise enough to choose where to work: somewhere solitary.