When I was younger I heard a man say "If you paint a picture thinking 'what will this look like in the gallery'" you're missing the point." And for some reason beyond my understanding that resonated with me, because there was some creative force inside that could not be silent, needed to be expressed, and that expression was who I was. I knew that I was an artist. As i grew by skills and abilities were strengthened and this gift was affirmed, until it was no longer just a gift. Just a skill. It was me. The very essence of the drawing was not simply a reflection, but a revelation so deep that it carried my very soul. I was my work and my work was me. There was no separation and it was within that that I found all purpose. All meaning in life. It was my identity.
And still, I grew. In wisdom, in ability, in praise I was received for who I perceived I was. I couldn't imagine doing anything different. Could see myself walking in a different life or light, This was my lime light, my stage. The place where I shined like the stars and it was that which I was called. In all my glory I displayed who I was for all to see and they loved me. Then the curtain call. As the critiques drew their pens and made slashes to the page, my soul became the target of the endless ridicule game, and all I was expected to say was "ouch?"
So small reaction for the tearing of one's soul. As one stabbing my chest, to rip out my heart. Hold it in their hands as it is still beating....beating....and they throw it on the ground to make their point.
I am worthless.
What is that precious piece of work you called art? My soul...my life...my everything....Displayed for the world to see just to be destroyed.
Yet here I am....Still alive....barely breathing as all that I ever thought I was has been put to death and now waiting to be revived. Oh death where is your sting? Wouldn't it be sweeter if you would just come to me. Draw your sword and put to death the rest of my being, because what I thought I was is gone and here I am still standing.
So I stand, In shock and awe, trying to grasp the concept that there is so much more to me than I ever thought. I am more.
My gifts. My calling ripped away. I'm still here.
Surprise.
I am strong. I am a woman. I am in process. And sometimes. yes, sometimes I am weak, but that will not make me defeated. I am a warrior. I am a fighter. But more than anything, I am a child, called out. chosen. adopted. Those are things that can never be defined through a calling or a skill-set. Likewise, never taken away by the proclamation of whoever thinks they're in authority at the time. And if I were to paint a picture of who I am it would display the glory of my Father who rescued me from the pit. I am alive. No one can change that. That man who said that thing about a picture hanging in a gallery. He was right, because I am so much more than a exhibit to be on display to entertain. I am an expression of divine love, and my art is an expression of me. I am an artist, and in that I reflect all the Father has made me, his beautiful child, creating in his image as he made me.
And still, I grew. In wisdom, in ability, in praise I was received for who I perceived I was. I couldn't imagine doing anything different. Could see myself walking in a different life or light, This was my lime light, my stage. The place where I shined like the stars and it was that which I was called. In all my glory I displayed who I was for all to see and they loved me. Then the curtain call. As the critiques drew their pens and made slashes to the page, my soul became the target of the endless ridicule game, and all I was expected to say was "ouch?"
So small reaction for the tearing of one's soul. As one stabbing my chest, to rip out my heart. Hold it in their hands as it is still beating....beating....and they throw it on the ground to make their point.
I am worthless.
What is that precious piece of work you called art? My soul...my life...my everything....Displayed for the world to see just to be destroyed.
Yet here I am....Still alive....barely breathing as all that I ever thought I was has been put to death and now waiting to be revived. Oh death where is your sting? Wouldn't it be sweeter if you would just come to me. Draw your sword and put to death the rest of my being, because what I thought I was is gone and here I am still standing.
So I stand, In shock and awe, trying to grasp the concept that there is so much more to me than I ever thought. I am more.
My gifts. My calling ripped away. I'm still here.
Surprise.
I am strong. I am a woman. I am in process. And sometimes. yes, sometimes I am weak, but that will not make me defeated. I am a warrior. I am a fighter. But more than anything, I am a child, called out. chosen. adopted. Those are things that can never be defined through a calling or a skill-set. Likewise, never taken away by the proclamation of whoever thinks they're in authority at the time. And if I were to paint a picture of who I am it would display the glory of my Father who rescued me from the pit. I am alive. No one can change that. That man who said that thing about a picture hanging in a gallery. He was right, because I am so much more than a exhibit to be on display to entertain. I am an expression of divine love, and my art is an expression of me. I am an artist, and in that I reflect all the Father has made me, his beautiful child, creating in his image as he made me.
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