“If you’ve ever
done anything at all, ever, that required some sort of physical or mental
exertion, some would say that you have experienced work” is the first thought
that comes to mind as I attempt to write my first memoir for my first college
English course, and this is my first time thinking about the work I’ve done. I continue from that initial sentence, but
twelve hundred words later, I’ve lost my point.
So I take my first thought and restart from there.
I’m eighteen years old and I’ve never held a
waged job, so I’ve never been hired in an official manner and I’ve never been
fired on a credential matter, but I’m eighteen years old and I’ve devoted
myself to a passion of mine. I’ve taken
time—countless hours upon days of my life—and tears, tangled thoughts, endless
troubles of mine and forced them through inexperienced, unenlightened hands
until they were carpal-tunnel-esque, un-frightened hands.
“I’m eighteen
years old and my life has been about (art) work,” I say to myself as I struggle
with the words creating wars in my head.
I’m eighteen years old and my life has been about (art) work and my art
takes time, patience, effort, struggle, joy; I have worked.
“I have worked.” I think back through all the work that I’ve
done and there’s a rush of memories and experiences that flood this thought
train that keeps splitting between tracks.
I’m five years old, in a kindergarten class full of gazing glue-eaters
who try to take my supplies during snack time while I draw a horse for a friend
who says I’m a good artist. I smile and
maintain my composure as I internally bask in the glory of the compliment, but
I don’t yet know that not everyone will love the things I create. I’m sixteen years old and it’s the beginning
of my junior year of high school. I’m in
Art III and my teacher coats me in her diet-coke-breath as she sighs bitter
criticisms in my ear, but I ask for direction and it’s as if she’s gone deaf as
she walks to her desktop with her arthritis acting up. I need feedback, suggestions; I’m asking for
help. I’m seventeen and it’s the last
month of summer before my senior year starts.
Philadelphia is perfect at this time of year because the humidity is low
but the sun proudly shines on a day-to-day basis, so each morning I’m ready and
willing to start class. University of
the Arts is the remedy for, the cure to, and the savior of my worries; I’m
getting the help I’ve been asking for.
“I’m going to
teach you how to see,” exclaims my advanced drawing teacher, and in the blink
of an eye, all this work is worthwhile.
I remember the times that my work was a job and when doing what I love
turned to attempts at loving what I do.
Now I’m learning how to see and though it’s easier than before, my mind
continues to expand and it’s working for me.
I’m eighteen and it’s May in Charlotte.
I’m sitting up late, cutting mat board with my mom because I just
graduated from high school and I’m framing prints of my art for an All Arts
Market tomorrow. If I don’t start now,
I’ll never make a living off of what I live for. This is a lot of work and I’m crying now,
sitting on my living room floor with my mom, because I’m scared that it’s
pointless.
“There are so many
artists out there and I think I’ll be one of them who’s considered to be
great,” I whimper as tears stream down my face.
“You’re right,
there are tons but why not take your place?” asks my supportive, strong-for-me
mom. “You’ve got talent and drive and
you’ve worked your whole life because this is a passion of yours and you’re
ready to fly. It’s ok to be scared,
‘cause the world is a monster but I know you can take it. You’ve fought mountains before.” I’m eighteen years old and my mom tells me
I’m good enough for what I’ve worked for.
I’ve spent year after year taking thought upon thought to create pieces
of life and I know it’s been hard, but I’ve loved every moment of this
hard-to-get-into industry. I’m eighteen
years old and last night, I spent hours getting ready to sell art and I hope
that it works, but I’ve got two days so I’m not worried yet. I’ve sold nothing this first night but
tomorrow holds hope. It’s the second
night and I’ve made an impression on customers around. Thus I’m earning (the start of) a living and
I think that it’s starting to work for me because I’ve earned my place and I’m
still working on moving on up.
I’m eighteen years
old, in my first year of college, and today I got scared of pursuing this kind
of work. People trash-talk the arts,
people look down on the artists but they have know idea the work it takes. I’ve spent eighteen years (give or take a few
months) spending my time and my love trying to create for the world what it
can’t make on its own; I’ve made pieces of art out of pleasure and pain, I’ve
made downright disasters because I hated the game, I’ve made money for
creations that someone loved, I’ve made aches in my fingers and hands and brain
because I exert myself and I’ve gained a sort of wealth from the work I’ve
done.
Notwithstanding the
times I’ve been put down, pushed around by either know-nothing critics or
all-knowing clowns, I have memories of times I believed in myself and they keep
my heart lifted as I climb from the ground up.
I can’t see the top of this ladder, so more work is on its way, but at
least I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I have worked.
I’m seven years
old and I’m in first grade. Everyone in
my art class is drawing a vase full of flowers, straight from his mind. We’re
almost done and our teacher is collecting our work, but I’m nervous now because
tomorrow he’ll hang up the pieces all down the hall and only three will be
winners. I’m scared. I want to get first place. I’m seven years old and I’m walking down the
hall with the rest of the kids in my art class.
I look for my drawing, but it’s hard to find. I see a blue ribbon with #1 written on it in
bold black marker. It’s mine. I’m going to be an artist one day.
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