I am a dreamer, full of tales and fancies, of all the promises of a mind fruitful and flourishing, the path to this point was not an easy one. My tale is not uncommon, ordinary in its basics truly as most stories are when you spin them down to that level; it is, as ever with stories, the particulars and the people that define it. There are in fact few times that you hear of art being encouraged, embraced as a life choice by the ‘parents’ in a person’s life. Though in my tale I didn’t have even typical parents cast in that role, no the plot and roles in my life have ever been more convoluted then that.
Always have I had an affinity for stories of fancy and delight, fairytales my favorite things to read even after the younger years had passed; it is there that I first found the knowledge that a story can be told many many ways, though the basic remains the same, and those stories and their retellings, their twists I loved, I allowed to fill my thoughts for it was easier then the reality that I lived in. When there is no safety in life retreating to books was how I found hope, how I dreamed of a life I never thought would be my own. Art though, for me, was never of true interest when I was younger; I did of course draw in the margins of my notebooks, odd designs, clothing ideas, the normal fancies of a young girl. I enjoyed coloring as a young child but it was never anything I felt was for me; no in a life full of turmoil like my childhood I hid myself snugly in the safety of school books and practicality, and when I allowed myself to dream it was of the tales I read in novels, the stories of far off places that would never touch my real life. I had nothing to say, to share of the images in my head. I remember though, that first turning of the tide, and such a small thing it was too, a poem. I wrote it in fifth grade, discovering with all the joy of an explorer in uncharted lands; apparently I too had stories to tell, things to weave my words.
Life moved forward from there, a passion for writing and narrative discovered but never did I consider it as a future of mine, not in that I could simply spin stories and the images of my mind out on paper, in prose or art, and have others interested. No I was more focused on the practical path of journalism, of sharing what was already there and perhaps showing some of what other people missed. I have always seen depths in things most people dismiss but perhaps that is simply the way I view the world, soaking in all the details I possibly could and fascinated with what I found. Even in journalism though, now I realize, I wanted to tell a story and encourage people to look at things in new and different ways. I don’t believe I have ever or will ever loose that desire.
The one fancy of passion I did allow myself was dancing, oh how I loved it. It is a simple sort of magic to have trained your body to respond to cues, to sink into its depths and move as you have practiced over and over. It was there, in those movements, that I found a peace to block out the uncertainty of my world and sink into what was simply ‘me’ with no apologies for what that was. I fear I apologized too often and too much for who I was once, apologies pressed for, ripped from me as if it were a sin to live and breath. Many things were ripped away from me and there was no true certainty in my life, not with my mother and stepfather, nor with my aunt after I pleaded to stay with her, nor with the foster parents she placed me with when she couldn’t handle the stains my childhood had left on me. And those foster parents changed as well, twelve foster homes in all, counted with deepening desperation and an aching heart. Eight of them, eight homes through high school.
I go ahead of myself though, for dancing did not carry me through those homes, it too was lost to me. At times, thinking of it I feel that when I finally fled my ‘parents’ as society would deem them that I threw myself over board a sinking ship to be tossed about by the waves, each time I thought I had grasped hold of a flotation and could rest my weary self it was torn from me and I cast back into the mercy of the waves. A mercy that there was little of. Even dancing was lost to the tempest of my life, through a snowboarding accident that weakened my ankles too much for me to continue on pointe. And so the one frail dream that had been mine, that escape, was put away and other things ruled my life, school was my focus and books my escape.
The loss of my dancing hit me hard, followed by the death of a close friend who had been my light in the darkness passion guttered and fled and I sank beneath the waves of the storm lost in depression and apathy. My foster parents at the time were not pleased; I no longer had the gloss of ‘perfect’ in their minds, no longer able to act out the drama that filled their desires. I was placed back into the system, adoption forgotten; first my aunt and then the people who had had the papers to take me as their own. I learned well then the cost of my weakness and secreted away as well I could the affects of my post traumatic stress disorder. The storm, on the surface calmed and I sank into the only safety that was left to me, school. There is a simplicity there, truly, in classes like History and English where you memorize the facts and rules and hold them close; like dancing almost though it was a duller dance, stark black and white to the host of colors from before.
Art found me then, forced on me again but in a way I could not get out of, the school required a visual or performing art. Choir was not for me, nor drama due to my shyness and awkwardness before people, that left only art and the guidance counselor placed me in it that very fall. I expected to hate it. Instead I found Mrs. Bee with her sunny smile and optimism, her love for pugs and laughter, her honest belief of art moving lives. She changed mine. I found then that there was a way to express myself without words and in a way no one could belittle, at least not with full understanding. Art is what you make it, and that is what I fell in love with first. I could make a picture and while it would mean one thing to me its ‘story’ would be vastly different to another person. So I poured myself into art then, all the fears, all the longing, the hopes and dreams I had forgotten I still had hidden inside me, almost as if they were a flame I had secreted in a lantern to keep it from the wind. At first I found myself preferring simply color pencils and line, then I fell in love with paint, with telling stories with symbolism and the like; my senior project was centered around different ways to interpret the Tarot. For me art has ever been a way to tell a story, and I suppose that is what is at my core, the stories I love, the stories I hold, to tell with dance, with writing, with art.
Art though was not welcomed into my life, not by the varied foster parents that passed in and out of my life, not by the one biological aunt who remained a part of it, it was not practical, it was not for me, I was smarter, or worse. It was a dream that I learned to contain and hide just as I did any other weakness. But one part of the dream came true, a scholarship and court approval granted to let me attend a summer experience at the Academy, to find that I had joy and hope still bright in my heart, I truly fell in love with art that summer, and I found so many new parts of myself that had never been given room to flourish before. It was over too soon though, and practicality, what people expected, closed in around me again. I have always had this need to prove myself as worthy through what I do, art did not get approval and so I left it, choosing another path to take.
Having driven myself so hard in high school and worked hard on my essay and applications I got into every school I applied to, a world opened to me, I chose a small school on the east coast. It wasn’t for me though, in time I realized however good I was at juggling things, however ‘brilliant’ I was at what I was doing I was not happy. The passion was missing, oh there was some, the passion to prove myself and earn praise for how much I could do and so well, but it was a dimmer flame. And it was then that I discovered a hidden gem within my own life, a hero(ine) stumbling into a answer on her quest of life; I had family now that I had met after graduation who would support me whatever I chose, who encouraged me to choose for what my heart desired. Loosened some from the coils of my fears and issues I chose to transfer from my first college to the Academy, thoughts of the summer experience there like a temptation I could not ignore. Unlike in the traditional fairytale though this decision did not make life easier, at least not at first, there was no magic wand waved here; rather I took myself from something I was nearly effortlessly good at and placed myself into a position where I was only average among many. I had not expected the hardship of that.
English, history, languages and facts, those had always come readily to me, I am ‘academic’ and I was easily the best in any classroom before the Academy, or if I was not I pushed myself frantically until I was. Art was something else, it was not something I could simply be good at because I had a clever mind and a good memory, it pushed me hard to actually pay attention to the world around me, to come out of the careful walls I built around myself. It taught me how to accept criticism and not wilt under it, but grow, not all failures are bad, for you learn and adapt. I struggled so hard that first semester, charcoal maddening and impossible it seemed, my own skills far lacking compared to others; but for that now I am thankful, here is the true adversity that taught me things I needed to know. Challenges and hardships I have faced before but those taught me how to be strong when the world was falling apart, how to build myself up and move forward, art taught me other things, kinder lessons, gentle things that lay in the heart of a person. Art taught me to cherish myself, to see what I could do and be proud of it. I do not compare myself to others anymore, do not need to be the best. I realized my self worth could not be tied into how I performed in school, at least not all of it to be sure. And I worked, oh I worked pouring myself into my assignments and giving everything I could to them. In that I found the ability to sink into myself as I had with dancing, to the very heart of ‘me’. I still thought I would fail, that I would realize that art was in fact not for me, I could not make the cut, I was, as ever it seemed in my life, not good enough. And then I truly was shocked when I managed to pull above average grades, when I didn’t fail, all my hard work had truly meant something, truly struggling with school for once had had its purpose, in more ways then one.
I learned something there, that first semester as a art student, and it was a lost truth coming home to take my heart, one I had ignored for most of my life. That semester I pushed myself hard, I loathed my incompetence and wanted more then I could give at first. But in that I pushed myself farther then even I myself realized and when I finally stood up for my final review I knew that I had done everything I possibly could, there was no lack of time or effort or attention given to my work. All that I was I had committed whole heartedly. And it was then that I learned to let it go, because there was nothing more I could do; it was done. It did not matter if I was not the best in a class, nor the worst, it did not matter what I get on an assignment; the fact remains that who I am is still that ‘core’ I sank down into to work. And that self has stories to tell and art to give, an imagination teeming with promise that will be fulfilled, one day. Once you have done all you can, let go, surrender to what it is, it is done; move on, grow like a flower reaching toward the sun. I have savored the unfurling of my petals.
Thus the revelation of the heroine, the quest for purpose sought and found, or rather the first piece of it. Art, like life, is a never ending journey, changing constantly, the true Never Ending Story; other revelations found their ways to me, glimmers of the person that I was if I would allow myself to be. I strayed farther and farther from the path I had set so neatly before myself, changing majors again to be truly what I have been called to, Illustrator now my sought title. It is better then Princess I think. And so a tale that is not that different from others, for all lives have their tales, their quests and revelations, life moves and we with it. But now I no longer fear for the worthiness of the stories I want to tell, do not doubt that my view of the same stories, spun out over and over, will be good enough to stand. The girl who found release in dancing, who found escape in books, wed to the one who found her own sanity in her art and saw it as a way to share a brighter world. So I will tell my stories, paint them, write them, cherish them and share them.
I am a dreamer, I am a artist, a heroine of my own tale. And I will be a Illustrator.
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