In English II recently, Mr. Hodges has brought up a topic I’ve long awaited to be discussed outside of the recesses of my poor, unused, perhaps even nonexistent brain. With the reading and class discussions and interpretations of Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist,” I’ve come to reassess my strict, confined definition of what “art” truly is.
Frankly, I can be quite the critical bitch when it comes to art. Not just anything can br considered art, okay.
In my eyes, true art must have substance, quality, and meaning. A true artist must have passion, purpose, skill, and drive. If either are lacking in any of these qualities, I cannot possibly deem it true art or true artist.
There are those who are amateurs… those who believe they are artists, or at least have the potential to be. Sure, this may be true in some cases. But in most cases, you’re either born with an artistic talent or you’re not. It’d have to take YEARS of dedication and practice to master an art without some initial skill.
Then there are those who are born with that gift. People like Vaneda Vireak… Emily Nguyen… and many others. Those are true artists.
I absolutely abhor the term “artist” being thrown around so casually.
I’m constantly referred to as an “artist” and am known for my apparent artistic skills.
Pfft, oh please.
My “art” is mediocre. Though I am passionate about art, it’d be a disgrace to call myself an artist. I don’t even want to be an artist. Too many sacrifices must be made in taking that pathway.
Although my art is rubbish, and I clearly am no artist, I still continue to find pleasure in drawing— err, doodling.
It pleases me just to be able to make my peers, and myself, happy with my drawings, whether it’s art or not.
In the end, that’s all that really matters to me.
