I Am Not an Artist

I am not an artist.

Said nobody about me ever.

Which is funny because even though I never tell myself that, I've been questioning it a lot. What makes someone an artist in the eyes of another person? Is my artwork really that good enough for others to recognize me as an "artist"? 

I've been drawing ever since I could remember--which dates way back to like the first grade, where I brought a little plastic toy to school (a Neopet, because I was insanely into those and probably need therapy now because of it), and I sat it down in front of me and started drawing it. Not even kidding, at least half the class came to breathe over my shoulder as I drew. If I could find that drawing now, I'd probably laugh at it's poor proportions and zero shading technique--but considering I was around 7 years old, I suppose it's not too shabby.

By the time I was in high school, I started painting and drawing far more complex things. Instead of plastic toys, it was more like Iron Man and any really cool-looking angel dude. I drew during class all the time. I remember in history class we were going over an extremely important test review, in which I knew most of the answers to, so I doodled people and angels and eyes and whatever all over the margins. I hadn't realized we'd have to turn in the review to the teacher once we were finished, and I was a bit worried because I drew everything by pen so I couldn't erase anything! But when the teacher got it, he loudly spoke from his desk to me, "Allison, I'm curious about what you'll draw on your next test review!" And he wasn't even mad. 

I received the Best Drawing award in my art class when I was a senior, which was probably one of the greatest feats I've ever accomplished in sight of being an "artist" only because I loved my art teacher and wanted him to see how much potential I had. 

When I graduated, I was voted Best Artist in our class of 2012--and I was astonished as to how many people even knew my name to vote it.

But.

After I graduated and moved to Canada for bible school, I slowly forgot how often I loved to draw and even paint. I was so focused on the dreams of others that I forgot about my own. When I moved back to Texas, it took a long time till I realized that I felt drained for not even crafting my own angels or dragons on paper.

The reason why I'm sharing all of this isn't because I want to put myself in a spotlight--understand that much at least! But if I could have you walk away with one thing from this post, I'd say: Don't forget your own dreams in support of someone else's. 

About a week ago I was hanging out with my awesome sister-in-law Tammy, and she wanted me to individually draw the letters for Happy Easter. I was like, heck yeah I can do that! But it only took the first couple of letters before my forehead was planted into her table and I was on the verge of tears. WHAT HAD BECOME OF ME?! They were just simple letters! But for some reason I just felt like I couldn't get them right, that I was letting her down because she might have high expectations of me. I should have never felt like that, but I did! Anyone who even knows me to the slightest bit of a degree probably knows that I can draw. That's a lot of pressure in itself, and I was feeling it.

Well, after having had such a miserable time drawing something as simple as lines, I decided to make up for it a few days ago. I wanted to make sure I could still be called an artist by anyone who thought me so.

I took out my watercolors and just went ape crazy in three hours, and finally turned out with the painting you see above! Of course it's nothing worth gasping and weeping out of sheer artistic revelation at, but to me the result showed me I am too an artist! I looked at no references for such a painting. I just listened to the soundtrack from Narnia and BAM. A mysterious person with a red cape in a storm of some sort! Who even knows what that means!

So please, my dear readers, know that if you have a passion for something, pursue it. Pursue it above the desperate attention of others' dreams. If you like to draw, write, golf, swim, bake cupcakes--do those things, lest you forget what God has designed to bring you personal joy.

Lest you forget the fine, fine life!

Thumper Bit My Face

I was probably three or four years old, waddling around like a little derp and secretly shoving chocolates into my mouth behind the couch with Taran when my parents brought home a black dog. I don't think he was a quite a puppy anymore, but nonetheless, we kept him and my older brother named him Thumper (after the bunny on Bambi, which made complete sense to him I guess).

Now I have to be honest with you, my fellow readers, that in my mind palace I hold not a single sliver of memory about Thumper. No memory of the moment I first saw him, not a memory of the first time I petted him. Nope. I was but a wee little lass and memory at that time meant only trying to remember what Mom gave me for breakfast that morning (probably oatmeal).

But.

There is one memory within my mind palace that could never be lost about Thumper.

On one fateful day, three/four-year-old me wanted to play outside with Thumper. It was just me and the black dog, having a fit of giggles and whatnot, when I noticed he had a large bone in his food bowl. Quickly I recalled all the shows I watched of Clifford the Big Red Dog (which was about as good as my memory got beyond breakfast that morning), and I realized that playing fetch with bones was a great way to make play with dogs. So, little ol' me grabbed the bone and started to jog so Thumper and I could begin our bonding experience.

But Thumper thought otherwise.

Everything past this moment was a blur--and not just any ordinary blur. It was a horrifying one. I realized that Thumper did not want to share his bone, and that in fact fetch was not with a bone but with a stick. He was running after me like a crazed monkey or a black rider out to get my soul. What was I to do? Drop the bone? Of course not.

I ran as fast as I could to the front door, and I vaguely remember trying to climb the fence that was the patio that connected to said door, but the next scene was...was truly horrific.

Thumper bit my face.

I don't know what happened after that. I must have dropped the bone while I let out a mighty roar of a scream (I had to make sure my parents knew their most precious child had been inflicted with pain), and I quite literally can't remember what happened thereafter. I must have wiped the memory clean from my mind. And probably all the memories of that day, including what I had for breakfast.

In the end, Thumper inflicted a small but deep wound on my face that now shines as a scar on the left side of my face right next to my nose. It was only a few days later perhaps that Thumper mysteriously disappeared. Rumors said our neighbors kidnapped him. But me? I believe Thumper is still out there somewhere.

Protecting his precious bone. Biting little children's faces if they come too near.

The End.

Also my older brother said he was watching from the window the entire time and that I wasn't playing fetch--that I was actually taunting Thumper with the bone and not giving it to him. Which is probably true. But somehow I don't even remember it that way.

The THE End.