Why Art?

I’ve been wondering lately (and therefore procrastinating) what is it that I want to say with this blog.  Why do I feel the need to tell, write, express.  I ponder this often.  I chose the path of an artist.  This is not the obvious path to financial stability, although finances are the dimension of my life by which I and many others judge my success.  So, why be an artist?  The drive of an artist is to express, communicate, question.  For nearly forty-five years I have had this itch, an internal crawling to get it out.  Just tell everyone.  It is such an itch that I get an awful pit in my stomach when I try.  The problem is I don’t know what it is that I need to express.  When I face this dilemma head on and really dig deep, searching my inner quagmire for a reason, or purpose, or message I come up empty, or maybe short, or maybe I’m afraid of it.  So I continue painting, sculpting and writing always of  the human, be it the body or the mind.  One thing has rung true throughout my life of art, that I am always searching for a better understanding of humans.  Why are we here?  What is our purpose?  What is my purpose?  Why did I meet her?  Why didn’t I meet him?  Why did I fall ill?  Why did she die?  Why do we persist despite great tragedies?  Why are you rich?  Why is she poor?  Why was he beaten?  Why was I abused?  Why?

In all these years of searching, I have been writing, drawing, remembering.  Trying at least to remember what little I do.  I was happy.  That’s what I remember.  I remember that as a little girl I was happy and that mostly I forget.  Here, I will remember as much as I can of Dot.


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