When I was five, I would copy my grandfather (a man who is undefinable and many wonderful things) and sketch away, calling myself a nartist (misspelling intentional). Art was simple, pleasurable, a way to connect myself with others and feel good about myself.
When I was a teenager, a woman came up to me and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. An artist, I said. She told me that I don't become an artist, I am an artist, and to get used to saying it. This proclamation stayed with and resonated with me. Art had become an escape, a way to deal with angst and to get out of classes. I briefly wore the title, carefully hiding it, hopeful that I could be someone worthy of such a statement.
In college, I took art classes, and struggled to label myself as artist. Art became humiliating, a way to compare myself with others and fail miserably in comparison. And so I graduated from college, searching to define myself in another way and taking a long journey to realize that my heart only wanted one thing: to make.
I took classes, I made things, I researched. I worked lame jobs, meeting a woman who called herself as artist and described how every night she would go home and make art. After working all day and adding nothing to my soul, I felt empty and could not go home and make art. For many years, I made nothing, feeling shame about my self-expression and guilt about my inability to work hard at it. I returned to college and set a path to become an art therapist, a career that made art making acceptable without having to actually call myself an artist.
During my graduate program, I experimented with media, had fun and tried all sorts of new techniques. I facilitated all sorts of art making experiences for others. I learned how to call myself art therapist, but never artist. I learned that I love writing, I learned to not shove art into a box, I learned that art was a powerful tool to express my heart, thoughts, and dare say it, my soul. But I did encounter my arch nemesis: The Inner Critic. I still need to do major battle with this evil foe, it is my sleeping dragon awakened by this bootcamp.
Now I am an art therapist: I find fulfillment in many ways in my job; and in many ways I do not. The five year old inside of me wonders why we aren't just making art with others
just because. During my interview for this position, I said that art was the most powerful gift to give someone, the gift of self-expression. But I struggle with feeling that my soul is not worthy of such profound expression while trying to convince others that theirs is. I rarely use art in my work, and validate it for all sorts of soul-sucking reasons (paperwork, space, time). Shame on me, because I know better. Here I make the statement that this will change simply because it has to: And so for my five year old self, I proclaim that I am a nartist. I am, I am, I am!
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And my image for Picnic...I wanted to show the image of the picnic blanket flying away under the tree featured on day one's artwork. I didn't know why until I added journaling on the page with the words "Let go" and "I forgive". Maybe its time to let go previous ways of thinking and move forward...or let go of my worries...maybe day 3 will show more.
Tonight I went through those songs that I used to listen to over and over again: Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos, Grateful Dead, Pearl Jam, STP, Violent Femmes, Faith No More. In those days, I didn't realize there was much of a future beyond getting up tomorrow. I didn't think I'd go to college (they encouraged me to go the community college interview and we couldn't afford it). I didn't think I'd have a long term-boyfriend much less a husband. I remember drawing hippie flowers and hanging them up in my room, reading books on astrology and staying up late to watch Arsenio Hall and sneak out to smoke cigarettes. I would stay up many late nights, playing the same CDs straight off my Columbia House catalog, daydreaming that I was someone different. 
I have a boot camp confession to make: For me, art making stirs stuff up. I think I'm stirring stuff up. I could feel it sorta growing in the background, and going through old music made me become incredibly aware of it. Actually, the credit goes to a co-worker who pointed out that my neck pain may be related to feelings. That's the problem with working in a mental health clinic: we all call each other out on our feelings. Boo. 
I've spent the day thinking about the concept of heavy metal, instantly thinking that I wanted to borrow the color palette of black and silver. I felt the subject matter didn't need to be related. I kept thinking about mercury, like in the old school thermometers, and wanted it dripping down. I was inspired by the photo above and wanted to make droplets, beading, thick pooling of liquid.
For the Creative Bootcamp, I will be using my altered book that I started a looong time ago after this. Like every project I start, the altered book fizzled after a promising beginning. The thing is, I love it and want to keep adding to it. So I am. Images are from the altered book.
This book is simply amazing. It has a heavy green cover, the pages take paint really well. The book is an atlas, exactly the type of book I would flip through when I was a kid, identifying places on the maps, reading about far away places, and learning about import/export businesses like it was my job. And as an altered book, it has lots of potential: maps, lists and sweet cheesy illustrations from the seventies. 
