Artist Statement 01: Is all art pain?

Lately, I’ve been trying to reconcile my feelings toward writing, attempting to find words befitting the page. Words succinct and true, drenched in worthiness. In all honesty, I felt afraid my best stories were behind me. It’s been years since I’ve shown up to the page, when isn’t this supposed to be what brings me joy? Is all art pain? I question: are my best life experiences and impulses that were worth telling condemned to be untold forever? Probably an irrational thought, yet it’s been years since I could sit in silence and let my fingers flow into the madness of a good story, or at least an honest account. 

And then the fear of the aftermath also lingered. Any story worth telling is seasoned with honesty, and in that honesty also lives a depth of pain I’d rather not confront. What if in unraveling myself in the telling, I can’t put myself together again? What if my jovial and stable presentation of self is overrun by melancholy? And yet I am here, with these thoughts, and decide to let myself be free enough to be unraveled. Consequences delayed. It isn’t up to me to decide what is worth telling anymore. My writing will exist somewhere, so that I can exist somewhere outside of my own imagination. 

So, here’s to practice making messy perfection?