My mom is an Artist. I am one, too.
“As far as this consciousness can be extended backwards to any past action or thought, so far reaches the identity of that person.”
Locke
1
Artist: a one-word synopsis that encapsulates all there is to me.
I breathe and live all that it embodies: creation, feeling,
an expression of the purest form of one’s being – art;
It is the materialistic manifestation of the Artist’s soul,
or at least a fragment of it, open for investigation and observation.
A small glimpse – the closest one will ever be able to get.
Voyeuristic even.
Artists are exhibitionists.
Their souls long to express themselves, or better yet,
bare themselves.
Desiring to be seen, to be understood,
desiring to live on.
But they also desire to move,
to leave an imprint on the souls who view,
to live forth in others.
Though only to those who have the capacity
to see the essence of their souls,
does it actually feel voyeuristic.
Artists want to discover them, reveal them:
The voyeurs of the world.
Artists do not know “why, when, or how”
they became one.
Do not know the reason
for the manifestation of their soul as art,
even when they try to think of it.
They might find a correlation,
but no amount of evidence provided can conclude causality.
If you ask any Artist the “why, when, or how”,
they will not be able to provide an answer.
An Artist does not become.
An Artist is.
2
My mom is an Artist. There is no doubt of that.
She is a dancer, a poet, a painter, a writer, a musician, a thinker.
She is the Artist, and like any Artist, she is also the art.
I saw the fragments of her soul in the paintings on the wall,
and felt them in the vibrations of the floorboards
as she jumped and spun on them,
heard them as she pressed the black and white keys
of the piano in the living room.
I did not know yet what she was or what to call her,
but seeing the fragments of her soul,
I longed to see mine as well.
So, I endeavoured in those things I saw her do,
and my soul’s desires felt fulfilled.
People told me I resembled my mom.
Told me I inherited her gifts.
I was good at drawing.
“You should become an artist”.
I did not want to be.
I did not want to resemble someone,
I wanted to resemble me.
So, I defied becoming one.
And I defied it so much for years on end,
that I completely overlooked what they said exactly.
“You should become an artist”.
Become.
An Artist does not become.
An Artist is.
3
I resemble my mom.
I am gifted with a predisposition to the arts, just like her.
But her gifts for the arts are not what make my mom an Artist.
Anyone can possess gifts.
Anyone can paint, draw, make music, dance, write –
act in the ways and do the things an Artist might.
But not everyone’s soul is expressed through those acts,
nor does everyone’s soul desire to.
Anyone can become an artist.
But an Artist is impossible to become.
An Artist is.
I admire my mom, admire her spirit, the portrayal of it,
the acts through which she is able to bare her soul.
She lit a spark in me to do the same,
to show my soul, to express it.
And how I did was through imitation.
She has influenced my soul to endeavour in the acts
an Artist might endeavour in.
But she did not influence the way my soul responded to those acts,
to the way my soul expressed itself.
4
I am an Artist.
Being one is part of me; it is me.
Even when I remember a time when I did not consider myself one.
Even if one day, my memory will let me down, forgetting all that it entails.
For my soul desires that which the souls of Artists do,
despite my mom being one herself.
I resemble my mom. But I am not her.
We are both Artists, separate from each other.
My mom is an Artist.
I am one, too.