Ok, first of all, I’m slightly hesitant about referring to myself as an artist. There is this wonderful part in Steven Pressfield‘s The War of Art in which he states that “[the] pro stands at one remove from her instrument—meaning her person, her body, her voice, her talent; the physical, mental, emotional, and psychological being she uses in her work. She does not identify with this instrument. It is simply what God gave her, what she has to work with. She assesses it coolly, impersonally, objectively.” But ultimately, I’m not sure what to call all of those who paint, draw, sing, arrange, act, write, speak, collectively, so bear with me.
Today, someone working towards creative goals just like me decided to give me a chance at getting closer to mine. I walked out of the building feeling pretty good; not entitled, proud, or in any way superior, but I felt as though I was moving in the right direction however small the chance I’d been given was. As I headed towards the Union Square subway station, I saw a young man sitting on the ground, drawing with markers. I initially passed him, but decided to walk back and ask him if I could take his picture—something about his witty cardboard sign had unexpectedly moved me. My grandma never told me to wear a suit and tie or the feminine equivalant, but I too have experienced the world’s hypocritic relationship with art. The young man told me he is leaving for Boston soon to go to a Slam Poetry Contest, and as I looked through his impressive portfolio I saw the poetry that accompanied some of the pictures. After getting cash at the nearest bank I purchased one of his prints (seen above), and as I walked away I thought: this is how art must survive; the constant support between those who love and practice it.
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