The Struggle Beneath the Canvas
When I was young, or when I was younger, little did I know that discipline is such a huge part of being an artist. I whispered to myself that I wanted to be one someday and those days felt like it never comes, or perhaps it comes every day that it became as mundane and unspecial as any days, and I will count myself to remain a non-artist. Because everybody with senses and feelings can make art, and to adjust the title of an artist one can make self-proclamation as loud as a whale’s ghast, and people, shallow ones, will eventually believe it.
So what is an artist anyway? Does anyone who makes art is eligible to call themselves that? I thought that an artist’s job was behind the canvas, the writing room, creating something out of mundane views and activities that people do without complaining. Somewhere between the edges of the room in which they ponder, some ideas are gargling on each other. Some old, some renewed, but they made a refreshing presentation nevertheless. A presentation which the first glance only the creator can actually see.
The whole process of the creation inclined n the artist’s memory so well that it he or she becomes to look like a machine on duty. The long-overdue pause that was meant to just be a coffee break, crumpled papers and canvas, sleepless nights, nail-biting and hair loss, more sleepless nights, are moments to cherish and evoke from the enigmatic creation, which nobody but the creator appreciates at the end.
