Why I’m an Artist

This essay was inspired by Nancy Stordahl’s excellent piece Substack Rebel, where she expresses her refusal to be ruled by metrics, as well as re-establishes her Substack boundaries.

It’s all-too-tempting to compare ourselves to others. For example, many Substack creators focus too much on how many subscribers, comments, restacks, and likes we receive.

I know. I was one of them.

When I started sharing my artwork on Substack almost three years ago, I cared too much about metrics.

But that got old fast.

Metrics are not art.

An Emotional Anchor

For me, sketching and painting have always felt wonderful. And creating art has been my constant self-care companion, my emotional anchor. During my childhood difficulties, I would sequester myself in a quiet space whenever possible to draw and paint cartoons. This practice would center me into my turbulent teen years.

Getting lost in artwork through the phenomenon known as flow is intoxicating. Creating art of all kinds is a welcome process that shuts out external noise. Our world has run amok, along with our news programs. A creative practice makes unbearable times less difficult.

And then there’s the internal noise, which is mitigated by the creation process. With PTSD and general anxiety, both partly a result of my breast cancer experience, I need art. Creating art keeps the disturbing internal noise from running rampant, so much so, that even hours after an art session, I still find myself calm, meditative, and restored.

For me, the very act of creation has also become a ritual. I love my pilgrimages to my art table, as well as setting up my canvas and paints. And the regular brushstroke rhythms and motions are meditative all on their own.

Speaking of rituals, I admire the rituals of poets Stephanie Raffelock and Deborah Gregory, who have written their calling upon a leaf and re-released it back into nature. Inspired by their actions, this week I did something similar.

Soon after writing my calling, artist, on the leaf, I walked outside, where a breeze unexpectedly lifted it up and took it to a place it was meant to go.

Kind of like art itself.