I've been in the throes of artistic anxiety lately, and it's annoying me half to death. Even talking about it (nay, blogging about it) seems to just make the problem worse. I'm having what I like to call a crisis of intent, compounded by a seething jealousy, tainted with a sense of competition that is misplaced at best. I've gotten so wrapped up in Art (with a capital A) and what it means to be an Artist (with a capital A) and why I Do what I Do (get the idea?). I just have stuff in my head, and it pleases me to see it embodied in a physical form. I don't have any big ideas that I want to convey to people, and social or political messages, and deep, omniscient concepts that reveal something relevant and original about human nature. I'm a scientist. I observe. I record. For me that means the natural world, obviously, and the creatures and environment of the sea. But also the things in my head, things I observe there, other things, like the way people act, the decisions they make - WAIT STOP- See, I'm doing it again, I'm trying to make this Deep. Trying, desperately, to sound like I know what I'm talking about. All I want to do is draw whales, but even with my feet barely in the surf of the "art world" (insert enormous finger quotes, eyeroll and childish attitude here), I'm still far enough in that even in trying to tell people I'm just a scientist in artists' clothes, I get caught up in saying what I think people want to hear; that I'm tortured by the need to make art, or that my art needs to go out into the world and make people believe a certain thing or think a certain thing. :: Cue frustration, kicking of inanimate objects and chainsmoking:: I can't even complain properly today.
I'mma scientist. All I wanna do is draw whales.