Closet Artist (volume 3)

The first time I brought a piece of art to class that wasn’t mine it felt good. It can be exhilerating to bask in the praise of admirers.  That is, until you stop and think for a moment.  Then your conscience begins to eat away at you for claiming the credit for doing something you never did. Or being someone you no longer are.  I used to be real.  Maybe my work was amateur.  My technique flawed.  Maybe I was never really an artist at all, but at least I was real. 

Initially the borrowed art seemed to alleviate some of the pressure to deliver. But  I soon learned that my newfound coping mechanism brought pressures of its own.  I had unknowingly raised the bar for what I could share. After presenting works of accomplished artists, my own work was less suitable than ever.  I missed not being able to bring my own thoughts and ideas to people.  Although I had never thought I was worthy of it, I also missed the sincere praise that my work had brought me in earlier days.  The praise I was receiving these days only brought pangs of guilt to my heart. I was in constant terror of being discovered.  I wanted it gone.  I wanted to return to my own painting.  And I wanted to be me.  

The guilt and unrest intensified until I knew I couldn’t live like this any longer.  A choice had to be made.  My options were clear:  I could either keep on bringing the fakes to class and perpetuate the cycle of guilt and inadequacy I had placed on myself, or I could raise my standards, improve my own work and eventually reclaim my initial standing as an authentic, if flawed, artist.  The last remaining choice would be to come clean altogether, to admit what I had done and to begin bringing my own feeble attempts back to class.  To me, the latter wasn’t really a viable option. I had see the criticism afforded amateurs in their absence. After my dishonesty, mine would be a double dose. I couldn’t face the humiliation.

The safest way for me to return to normalcy seemed to be to combine the first two options. I continued to guiltily claim credit for masterpieces that weren’t mine.  But I justified in my mind that it was only until I could improve my own work enough to present it.  I worked secretly at home to hone my skills so that someday my own work would be worthy of a trip outdoors.

I poured myself into my work  I was passionate about painting.  As a child I had been passionate too.  But nowadays, I wasn’t passionate for art’s sake but for the sake of creating safety to be able present my own work again.  If I got good enough, I could be worthy to receive the praise I had stolen.  Maybe then I could begin to paint again for the joy of it.

There I stood in the front window of my home.  I worked frantically on amidst piles of papers and oozing supplies.  It had become a familiar scene.  Caught in a trap of my own making, I was in a state of true panic.  Blood pounded in my ears.  The feeling was gone in my stained fingers.  The canvas I dabbed at was a soggy, blurry mess, through the tears that burned my eyes.  How long could I keep this up?  

In frustration I threw the easel to the floor.  Month after month, I had painted.  For what seemed an eternity I had been stuck in this trap, trying to get out.  I had been patient.  I had taken correspondence courses, studied the greats and sought private instruction.  Surely with time I could achieve.  Surely with practice, I could accomplish.  All to no avail.  My work continued to be second-rate, barely worthy of its place where it was stacked along the closet wall.  Things had gotten worse.  It seemed like the harder I tried, the less ability I had.  I began to wonder about myself, my calling.  As the months turned into years, I finally began to give into that sinking feeling I had tried to ignore for so long.  I’ll never be good enough.  I hated what I saw on the canvas.  I had unknowingly created a self-portrait of one who loathes everything she has become. Shock racked my chest like painful blows of an assailant as I caught sight of the grotesque image that had come from my hands.  Had I really gone this far?  

I walked to the closet.  Stack upon stack of images assailed me.  None were beautiful.  None had any merit.  How could I have ever thought that I could paint something worthy of display?  Darkness was where these works belonged.  Hidden.  With a torn spirt I threw in the easel, the paints.  Then, gritting my teeth, I threw in the hideous self portrait on top of it all.  And I slammed the door.

It was with some relief that I put away those things.  Yet as I passed the closet door day after day there was still a nagging at my soul.  Still a longing to create.  There was still that little six year old girl wishing to make a princess for the sheer joy of painting.  I was torn between bringing out my supplies and leaving the door shut forever.  But I knew what was best.  These images should never see the light.  They were a curse on humanity and the Creator.  Even in the darkened and confused state of my hurting heart I knew that these images were meant to be locked away. 

Then one day as I passed by the closet, they called to me again.  I had to paint.  If my paintings could never see the light, then neither would I.  And I climbed in the closet with them.