I think almost every artistic piece I’ve ever made has not been good enough. Even now, I am a critic of my own writing as it is being typed on the page. Everything I say, paint, or photograph can be good or great. But I think my entire life, I have been reaching for the best I possibly can be. Knowing that what I made was really good, but also thinking about what a better version of myself could have done. Never quite feeling proud.
What I realize now is that trying is actually the most important step, and I am far too hard on myself. Some people spend their whole lives fearing their inner critic so much that they refuse to even make an attempt. Lack of resources and prejudice hold some of the world back, which I will never truly understand why I get to be here when someone twice as good as I cannot. That being said, I think art, especially in times as dark as these, can be a way to release our inner soul. Even through these three pieces I have shown here, one old and two new, while bright and colorful, they were like vomit on the page of my own shards. And they are not perfect, but nothing about me is. Nothing about anyone is, as cheesy and cliché as that is to say, it’s also undoubtedly true.
