For me art is like opening up my ribcage and saying here, here, this is where I stored all the magic you gave me. Here, take everything please I don’t want any reminder that I let anyone in.
It’s like opening up my chest and scrubbing it with bleach and saying here, this is better. This emptiness is better. It is saying I don’t remember the last time I was this hollow.
It is trying to throw away all the photographs, then digging them out of the trash and putting them back on the walls. It is pixie dust under your fingernails. Art is trying to scrub yourself clean of feeling, or maybe it is trying to finally talk about feeling something.
I can’t tell if art is a disease or medicine for me. I know you are not supposed to say that about something you love, but sometimes it is both. Some days art is the kettle whistling, the end and also the beginning, it is finally saying everything I meant to say. Some days it comes out beautiful and I feel better.
And sometimes art feels like a sickness. The only thing that comes out is ugliness and I feel empty inside afterwards. Sometimes art is crippling self doubt and tearing up sheets of paper and telling yourself, this is not me. This did not come from me. I did not feel these things.
Art, for me, is like pressed flowers. Beautiful, delicate. Easy to forgot that something died here.