I Am An Artist
I am an artist. In every sense of the word. This isn’t a raging ego shriek, but a necessary realisation of something I’d momentarily forgotten while I was off in my midlife crisis anxiety spiral.
I was looking out there, at current affairs, at the edge of the universe, pinballing around a mind so untrained, it took me to the edge of despair.
Life is a long struggle with joy along the way. I heard a quote to that effect, so we have to get resilient if we’re to avoid losing authorship of our own story. If I’m not living as the artist I was born to be, then I’m asleep at the wheel, and bad things happen.
Again, not ego. Not artiste, or the artist formerly known as Ben Tallon, or anything like that. More surrendering to my natural state.
Every human has an inner artist. Some are fine letting them off the leash here and there, or merely for pleasure. For others, it’s a way of being, a way of coping with the world outside of ourselves. We question, prod, probe, interpret, ponder, process, procrastinate, and play with ideas that are more than science and logic. We believe in magic and speculate about something better, while quietly yearning for it.
And it’s not drawing, music, writing, or any other singular art form. It’s a way of life. Put us in a room with scientists, engineers, mathematicians, and fascinating collisions can happen. Isolate us for too long, and you might find us missing an ear or searching LinkedIn for jobs we’re not qualified to do.
When I don’t make time to get my head into something that lights up my soul, I’m more susceptible to mental health dips. I’ve felt it lately. Too much work work, as great as that is, and not enough play for an artist, is like light deprivation for a plant. It can fight and it can bounce back with a little, eventually, but leave it long enough and something dies. Then a new cycle must begin, from seed to bud to flower.
In this midlife crisis, I thought about death a lot. Full-blown inner turmoil trying to imagine what's next, if anything. When that happens, I have to tell stories, read stories, and engage with art and imaginings that transcend the physical and mortal.
Psychotherapist Phil Stutz calls this idea ‘higher forces’. When we create, as humans are supposed to, we connect to higher forces. To me, this isn’t God speak or anything loftier than the truth of the exhilaration and purpose I feel when I enter flow through my art. That feeling and the effects of it expressed in the world is proof of something magnificent, far beyond the capacity of my tiny mind to properly understand.
So, I serve it, and ride the wave, and put the work into the world, and then…surrender.
Because I’m an artist.
That’s enough. It’s an ecological act, when you think about it, and the ideas, actions and infinite ripple effect from living as the inner artist transcend death and the petty pissery of the silly shit we too easily allow ourselves to be caught up in.
I’ll keep on. Keep learning and remembering to live this most natural of ways, optimistic, ready, and open, staring off into space with a loaded smirk on my face and a pen in my hand.