I am not an artist.
Or at least, that’s what I told everyone for a week straight at the peak of my moody, creative crisis.
The truth is, I am. I’ve been dabbling in different mediums for the sake of exploration since I was kid, but happened upon my honest dreams of filmmaking in recent years— meaning some of my best pieces are behind me. I know I can pick up making whatever I want whenever I want, but more than anything, I want to make movies. So I pour into that. I look at life around me and make them scribbles. Storyboards. Studies. And it is all I do. Because it’s all I want to do! It helps communicate my visions, strengthens the skills I am the weakest at. I’m fortunate it lights me up so much! But for a moment there, it felt like being a true visual artist was something of memory. It was just so different from how I draw and operate now. There is no planning, no meticulous detail— just chicken-scratch from moving subjects and a dream.
I didn’t want to call myself something I felt like I wasn’t anymore.
But a little optimism and a little encouragement later, I know that I am. And I can look at both what I have done and currently do and know that change isn’t erasure, but evolution.
I have just adapted. To a persistent trying and ballpoints pens. And I am an artist.
I never stopped being one.