Disillusionment and The Rebel Artist

Can you imagine the little girl, pigtails and overalls, hanging out in her father’s garage – shy but feisty – mimicking her father as he worked on his cars and shooting the shit before she even realised what the phrase meant?

Can you imagine the same little girl playing with her My Little Ponies and Tonka Trucks, muddied from head to toe but fucking happy?

Can you imagine her room, paper and stories strewn out within, no end to her creativity? No end to what she could achieve? Creating stories and worlds with nothing but a few props and an expansive imagination?

If you can imagine that, then this may be your first introduction to me. Or maybe who I was.

However, if you knew her growing up, she may have been no less imaginative, but maybe more aggressive than feisty. Maybe more tempestuous than shy. But still full of endless stories and exploits, and still able to immerse herself in a new world with nothing more than pen and paper and a fierce desire to get down everything that was held inside.

Have you ever taken a moment just to look back on your life?

It dawned on me, after taking a look backwards, that despite having this whole rebellious and tenacious streak throughout my early life and teens (Oh boy. The stories!) what followed was a huge void. A large, possibly 10+ year gap, when I may as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

Something had stopped me. Something had changed.

So what the fuck happened? Where did that little girl go? Why did that tempestuous teenager lose her edge?

Why had I – what may have been gradual but seemed to happen all of a sudden – become NOTHING?

THE DISILLUSIONMENT

Somewhere along the way my imagination had started to take a backseat to the other voices in my head. Those voices that seemed to resound in all waking moments. Those of my peers and those from my teachers. And those from that shy girl who was becoming too scared to do anything for fear of being judged, rejected or at best shot down in a blaze of glory.

I was told to do things this way or that way but never really my own way. And in the confusion I gave up. Saddened, I never felt good enough. I never believed what I was doing was right or even remotely good.

Not really knowing what I wanted, and doing nothing to change that, I became so damn disillusioned that I almost ceased to exist. I had just given up. No longer gave a fuck. Had folded in on myself.

All the things I associated with who I was, I let fall away. The Artist. The Writer. The Storyteller. The Dreamer. The Visionary.

That little girl with the world at her feet and a vivid imagination at her disposal.

Gone.

Have you ever felt like your identity was wrapped up in something you felt truly passionate about, something maybe you’ve always ‘been,’ and once that was torn down, beaten into the ground, you were left there like pulp, chewed up and spat out, nothing more than some disregarded piece of rubbish that could be swept up and taken out with the trash?

 

THE BEST THING

Then I looked back, somewhat out of this daydream, with just a little more clarity than before.  And on one level I thought – ‘Fuck, such a wasted life’ – and I couldn ‘t help but wish I had done more with those years. Been more. Experienced and created more.

Lived more.

But you know,  this may have been the best thing for me, because I sit here now knowing that I don’t want to be the blackness, this empty void. I want something more than to just pass through.

It wasn’t until later (today actually) that I realised doing nothing much of anything was (in some crazy way) better than conforming. Better than trying to be something I wasn’t. Despite the pain of years turned to dust.

You see, I tried to be the artist and the writer that I thought others wanted me to be. I tried to be who I thought they wanted me to be. I tried to be anyone but myself. The person I no longer really liked. This person I was slowly starting to despise.

But it didn’t fucking work. It didn’t fucking sit well with me. You see, that right there was DEATH.

And I wasn’t ready to die just yet. I wasn’t ready to go out without a fucking fight.

So then…

I decided once and for all to let go of the judgement and opinions of others. To once again be that little girl whose joy was that of immersion and creation and not the praise of others. Whose own little world was such a joy she would leave the ‘real world’ behind for hours and even days on end.

To reclaim the feistiness I once took for granted as a teenager. To be daring. To be fueled with desire.

To rediscover just what it is that makes me truly happy. To do the things I want. To become the Rebel Artist, even if it is only in my own world. Even if no one sees my words. Even if no one sees what I create. Even if no one knows a goddamn thing about me.

But just because.

A RESOLVE

And so I made a choice, that, no matter what recognition I get or don’t – no matter what the others thought – I HAVE to do things my own way. I have to create the way that I was born to create in the ways that I choose because…well…I FUCKING CAN.

And I MUST. (And you should too).

Not everyone is going to like what you do. Not everyone is going to like YOU. How much does this really matter in the larger scheme of things?

Answer: Fuck all.

The point is, the true ‘artist’ does not (above everything) seek fame or infamy. Does not need validation. Does not need to be acknowledged publicly, because deep within they have a burning desire to reveal that part of themselves they often keep hidden.  They have stories to tell and visions to recreate, and they MUST do this or otherwise they are left void, dead, signed off on.

Before anything, the Rebel Artist is a creator, and only wants to do things their own way, despite everything. Despite being bullied and misunderstood.

And if this is all the Rebel Artist has, than this is more than enough.

Anything beyond that is just ganache icing on a caramel mudcake.

THE REBEL ARTIST

The Rebel Artist does not stifle their creativity because of the lack of vision of others.

The Rebel Artist is the one that follows their own rules and breaks them at will.

The Rebel Artist does not conform, nor does he/she seek approval from others, (though they may like it).

The Rebel Artist is not above others, does not believe in this fucking hipster mentality of being too cool for school, they’ll help their fellow creative, encourage true individuality.

The Rebel Artist does not rebel for the sake of rebellion – it’s not a plan thought out. It’s not a device to be used but an action taken in any given moment.

The Rebel Artist wants only to do things their own way, use their own voice, create what and when they want to. Without apology. Without exception.They stand by their convictions even when they’re going one way and everyone else is going the other. Even if what they’re doing is so far left of centre it has almost come back around.

So will you become a Rebel Artist or will you die a slow death?

Ps. We are all creators. We are all artists. And we all have the right to live our lives the way that we want. Dreams are given for a reason. Passion is not random it directs us to the things we should be doing. Be everything you’ve ever wanted to be. Now.