Sometimes I find the idea that I am an artist to be more of a curse than a gift. Artists have the ability to manipulate simple patterns and forms and create something wholly original. Sometimes this is done for profit. Sometimes it is done for attention. A lot of times I think it is done because of compelling forces within the artist himself/herself.

For example many portrayals of artists, especially around the post-impressionist period, depict artists as being driven to create to the point they neglect most other aspects of life. Monet went blind, yet still continued to paint water lilies. Seurat followed the color theories of scientists passionately (And is beautifully (albeit, probably inaccurately) portrayed in Sondheim's masterpiece, "Sunday in the Park with George"). Van Gogh could not stop painting if he wanted to.

It's this last artist I find dangerous in many ways. The idea that a person can become so entrenched in his work that little else matters is frightening. The idea a person who was such a gift to his field, yet considered himself such a failure during his lifetime shakes me to my core. The idea that often when I draw, if I do not impose strict limits of creation on myself (Only draw/paint 3 things today), I would be eerily similar to him.

Not in terms of skill. I do not acknowledge or notice anything skillful in myself that I could come close to comparing to Gogh. The similarities, I feel, come from a combination of creation, and the cynicism it causes me to have while in a creating mood.

They say art is a good way for a person to see the world as it truly is, and when I begin to get deep in art, actually deeply creative with it, I start to become horrified at what my art is reflecting. Is it reflecting the world as it truly is, or is it simply reflecting me?

I do not know, but it scares me to the point of sadness.