I’ve always known the performer in me. He is not new, he is not foreign, he is not, not an artist. But I’ve always held the word “artist” for the visual arts. Maybe because of the language we have — arts v. performing arts — or maybe because I’ve always felt like a vaudevillian and growing up “artist” was such a 5th Avenue word to me. Seurat, Van Gogh, Monet, Manet. Guggenheim, MET, MoMA, Whitney.
I remember hating art class as a kid. Even my stick figures needed work. My results were always so far from the prompt and I never produced anything I liked or, god forbid, was proud of.
Until about 4 days ago this held true.
I’ll Ink to That is where this newfound joy is going to live. I don’t know what it is, where it’s going, or who needs it but it’s happening.
To all artists, whatever your medium, training, or accolades — I respect the hell out of you.
