With pain and struggle I sit at my work table and paint. I have been carrying a weight around that has to do with my art. I have been feeling guilty, impatient, uninspired, useless, envious, selfish, and just downright frustrated.
I have been believing the lie that “Those who can’t do, teach”. That. is.a.lie.
I am searching my heart for the day, the moment that I believed that I was not gifted. The moment I thought I was beaten and would never achieve the things that I really wanted to. There’s the body of work that never sold. There’s the piece that didn’t get a single bid. There’s the fact that only one painting sold on etsy this past year. BAM! KaPOW! BOFF! There goes my self-worth as an artist. It hurts, really bad. FAILURE. It echoes in my ears. I can never catch up. Deadlines, HA! My hand feels numb as I hold my brush sometimes. As I try to work the same section of grey over and over I feel that heaviness. “What am I doing? I have a filthy floor, clothes to fold, a lonely husband sitting on the couch, a spare room full of scattered stuff…why do I even try!?!?” My blessings become millstones, and now my artwork mocks me.
I’ve hashed it out with Joel, with Cat, with Sarah, with my Mom. And there’s only one person I NEED to hash it out with, Jesus.
In my discouragement, I have been ignoring the weight and painting these colors that please me. The composition may hurt me, but the colors. My love for them makes me want to let my house fall down around me. Forget everything I just shared, because that’s just me. That’s Kate working out her pain. But my enjoyment of these colors is a salve. It’s still in progress, maybe I’ll never finish. Because the smart-ass part of me could care less if you like it, I just want to do it. I think it’s wonderful. I live with this desire to have the Public praise me, but I just want to paint this. For me.