When I was in 1st grade...the only thing I wanted to be was an artist.
Well, what were my options at the time? As far as anyone knew at that point, you can only be a doctor, policeman, firefighter, artist, vet, a computer guy (only knew that one cuz my dad is one), and...and...a ballerina.
It wasn't like I was so narrow minded and sure of myself at the age of 6 that I was sure that I was going to be an artist when i grew up; I did try to keep an open mind and to try everything. I knew I didn't wanted to be a doctor because I'm bad at "Operation" and moreover, I get queasy at the sight of blood (wimp). So "doctor" was gone in two seconds flat. I didn't want to be a policeman because at the time, I was scared of them (still is I think...what's with the sunglasses??). I didn't want to be a firefighter because i didn't like fire (WIMP). Needless to say, I found out rather quickly that I wasn't the heroic kind. I was the sensitive, wimpy kind (for Halloween I dressed up as Dopey).
Ballet was a messy business for me, even at the age of 5. I won't go into detail but let's just say that not event the appeal of the pretty tutus could keep me in class for more than 2 weeks.
so that left me one choice, artist.
The only indications that I had to myself at the time that I had possessed any artistic talents was my obsession with drawing watermelons and squirrels. I didn't consider it seriously at the time but it did float around my head a lot. Nevertheless, when I talked about my passion for drawing with my friend in first grade during lunch time, she turned to me with an incredulous look and said, "Drawing? But that's easy - it's just circles, sticks and curvy lines!"
She being the dominant one in our friendship, I quickly followed her lead and (reluctantly) agreed that she was right. Yep, I was a wimp.
And that was how I looked at art from then on, a good way to get good grades, a tedious task, and most importantly, circles, sticks and curvy lines.
By that time my parents thought it best to send me the Chinese school "so's to not forget my own language" (but i stopped after 5 years there and forgot everything afterwards, but that's a different story). There was an art teacher there and she taught everyone how to draw panda bears using step-by-step processes. It was a fact that i excelled in that class even though we weren't getting grades and credits or anything. I just liked it there and I found my own little niche. The teacher took notice of my and offered to take me in as a student. I said maybe. My parents said "YES." Later she stopped teaching at the chinese school and another teacher came. She was another professional artist and eventually she also wanted me as a student. Well, I told her that I was off the market.
So when I was sent to the art studio at the age of 7, I would never thought that I was going to be there for the next 9 years. But that 9 years seemed to drag on for a long time. I sent many of my artworks into local competitions and won quite a few awards. But those were all pretty insignificant. Although art class did have it's moments, I felt that at the time, I would rather be at home watching Yu-Gi Yo. Circles, sticks, and curvy lines.
It wasn't like I had lost my flare for art; I was constantly praised for my drawing skills from elementary school and all the way even now. But those were the years of preteen ignorance in which I was fully aware of but didn't bother to suppress it. I still liked drawing, just not taking classes every Saturday when I felt like I could have done some relaxing instead.
And that was how it went for a while. Until, middle school.
Many things happened at that time: I was in a new school, I was no longer at the top dog at school but a small 6th grader, I found it very easy to get straight A's, became a full time nerd, and forced to look at myself in the mirror, stare, and wonder what the hell I'm gonna do when I grow up.
For a several years, I played with the idea of being a scientist. I loved science at the time mostly because I found out that I was good at math and science. I played with the idea of being a teacher. For the longest time, I wanted to be a historian/archaeologist because I also found out that I liked history mostly because I got an A+ in that class. I also thought about being a writer because I also found out that I liked writing (still do lol). "Artist" hadn't resurfaced at that point.
But it did. And when it did, I found out that I...liked the idea of it. But there was a problem; I knew that being an artist was the kind of job that was too surreal to fit into the real world. It wasn't a job that could be easy to find. I also was aware of the bubble that I was living in - I knew that there were plenty of other artists that were probably more talented than I was. Being an artist would be a risk.
So the Second Reich began in which I tried to stamp out any thought about becoming an artist. I told myself that it was a dangerous game and the best choice was to strip it down into what I told myself art really was, a hobby. I even told myself that I would be better off doing something academic, something more honorable. But every time I tried to run away, I always ran into one form of art or another whether it was literature, paintings, or drama. However, I wouldn't even admit it to myself even if it was staring right at me.
That continued on well into high school. By that time, I was really excelling in my art class. I had been entered in competitions and magazines which I thoroughly enjoyed. I had really started to enjoy art class, more than I did before and I found myself thinking what I wanted to draw in the next class. I would then release all my energy in doodling...which took hours and a lot of will power and self scolding to stop. It was no longer circles, sticks, and curvy lines. I felt even more passion for art.
So during the summer before 9th grade, I looked at real artists' artworks. I loved each and every one of it. And I found out something about art that I had always known but wasn't aware that I did: Art was beautiful, art was simple, art was complicated, art was tranquil, art was creepy, art was serious and sometimes, at the best of times, art was funny as hell.
And that's when I realized, "Holy sh*t, I can't get rid of it." I loved art and that was a fact. I had come to that conclusion on my own because I was forced to. I couldn't get rid of art and I was physically tired of trying to fight it. It was also physically impossible, like trying to get out of a full body speedo. It was the truth. It's like when you look all around the house for something and you just can't find it and you've been looking everywhere. Then when you push away a few boxes in the closet, you find this small toy that you had since you were a in kindergarden or something. You look at it fondly, forget whatever you were looking for because you realized that this was something much better. It might have the been the thing you were looking for the whole time but you didn't realize it at the time. I felt like that art itself was a really innocent and true friend that I didn't treat too kindly when I was younger, yet it was loyal even then. It followed me all throughout my life and I barely took notice of it.
I had a hard time realizing who I am as myself. I never thought I would have trouble with the whole cheesy "WHO AM I?!" thing but things are only cheesy because they happen so often and that they are the deep sentimental stuff that nobody wants to deal with. But the only thing that happens often, always leads to the same result, and is too sensitive to have anyone wanting to admit to it is the truth. The truth is a really cheesy thing that we all have to deal with. And that's what I found out.
Art and I had a long love-hate relationship for which I'm sure that this rom com story isn't going to end any sooner.
I'm still not sure exactly what I'm going to be when I grow up. But I have a pretty good idea.
