I’m wrestling with my place in art. I have been an artist in many ways in my life: a painter, a sculptor, a photographer, a dancer, a sewist, a writer. Creative practice has always been held as part of my identity, and often things other people attributed to me. “You’re crafty, right?” Yet my lack of substantial training and seemingly inconsistent talent kept me from claiming that I was truly any of these things. But when I reflect on the ways I learned early on - took weekly classes in elementary school where I progressed through the mediums, enrolled in art electives for three years, put hours in to rehearsals for three years in the dance program in high school - I’ve been taught by many incredible teachers. Even when I was a choreographer, I didn’t feel like a ‘real dancer’. I didn’t live and breathe this art. I was an equestrian, a woman in STEM - why did I not think myself worthy of further facets? Why could I not claim this with confidence?
Commitments to academia and my body have caused a shift in my hobbies. I am no longer riding, and haven’t embroidered for months. I didn’t pick up my sewing machine for the entirety of my first quarter of graduate school. I did recently purchase a bike similar to one I had in college, so that I can get out without being fully at the mercy of my legs. But as much as I want to become a bisexual roller skating fanatic, it’s the walking on wheels that makes my hips preemptively ache. That was the first time I looked at something and really thought, ‘I can only go so far with this. I need to find something safer for me.’ It felt like I had achieved a new level of disability awareness, and one that I wasn’t really ready for. I’ve found myself shifting my time back into my art, and figuring out how to set goals for it, because that’s something people do. Even after publishing a website, sharing art for donations to community orgs, and submitting a few pieces at an art collective in Sacramento, I felt like an imposter in the art world. I started doing what I thought real artists did: real artists have websites and studios and business cards and consistency. This idea of the ‘real’ artist embeds perfectionism in what should be a flow. It puts stone walls up and tells the river where to bend. Instead of trying to force ourselves into a box of unnecessary classifications, we should find space and say “This is where I am. Come see what I have to share.”
A couple of months ago, the sewing machine I bought in March of 2021 broke and was decidedly not worth fixing. After chatting with the owners of a nearby sewing machine and vacuum service shop, I thought about a rather drastic upgrade to a computerized machine that included a sensor on the presser foot so if Woody decided to nap on the pedal again. I had been feeling discouraged with sewing, particularly with trying to make hard pants that never seemed to fit me quite right. This upgrade felt like a commitment to creativity that I didn’t know I had been avoiding. My first machine was cheaper than my utilities bill; if I decided sewing wasn’t for me anymore, I didn’t feel like I had put too much stock into it. We know I dislike instructions and am very much a learn by doing kind of person in all areas of my being. Committing to this sewing machine felt like I had to commit to sewing at a certain caliber, to learn how to finish raw edges properly and add labels to my clothes and grade between sizes. Do other artists feel this way when they make a big investment in their art? How can I live in the process rather than the product?
I was scared to jump in to this newsletter because most of my writing has been inside academia. I had no idea what I had to offer, just that I had thoughts. I’ve been wanting to take a writing class for some time and signed up to audit a few online. I never got the motivation (or discipline? but that’s a whole other character flaw) to actually start. But I want to improve, find community, commit to my art. I want to take a writing workshop with Haley Jakobson, a quilting workshop with Marlee Grace, go to more Big Gay Sewing Circles with Marlee and Zak Foster. I want to learn from these artists who make my heart sing when their words hit my inbox, who speak truths I haven’t yet considered and who build beautiful art that I could live in for a sun soaked afternoon. I want to welcome my art in as a practice that deserves investment, care, and grace. It deserves to exist. It doesn’t have to be good, it doesn’t have to be published or shown in a gallery or win awards. I am an artist, in my own form. Come see what I have to share.
what I’m working on: a spring quilt to welcome the transformation of the changing seasons and settle into the cyclical nature of life
something local: manny’s is a community space in the mission with a political bookshop, serves incredible lattes, and plays my spotify wrapped every day
something to read: colectivo común, a newsletter of loved-in homes by eimy fig
something to listen to: marlee grace’s playlist personal practice