When I Knew Art Was the One for Me

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

A guilty pleasure of mine is putting in my earbuds, playing that perfect song, and acting out actual performances in my bedroom. I’m sure I’m not the only person on the planet who does this. Some people might use a hairbrush or a pen. Some might jump up and down on their beds. For me, my floor is my stage and my phone is my microphone. God forbid I’m home alone — then the living room becomes the PNC Arena.

It’s funny, and a bit embarrassing when I sit back and think about it. My parents and little sister have walked in on me imitating I’m screaming my lungs out, pretending I’m Beyoncé or someone else awesome. I even remember one instance in particular, when my family and I were auditioning our favorite songs for our Annual Freeman/Nobles Family Reunion Celebration playlist. My dad (always the most excited one for family events) insisted we all sing a song together to perform in front of the family (yikes).

I had just gotten out of a pretty devastating “situationship” and was literally drowning in my emotions. I put on Silly by Deniece Williams. Initially, I wasn’t taking anything seriously. I made stupid faces like I was wailing; swaying back and forth while gripping the microphone dramatically.

But then that magical wispy melody with Deniece William’s incredibly underrated soprano voice gliding over it like milk started to hit me and I just lost it. I shut my eyes tight and started singing — not as good as her, obviously — momentarily forgetting how ridiculous I may have looked. I felt the weight of the song more deeply than I ever had before (and trust me, I’d heard it countless times), and it just took me over. The room was silent, and I knew it wasn’t because I sounded as good as Mrs. Williams. I opened my eyes slowly to see my sister trying not to laugh. My heart sunk, and I felt my face get hot. I passed the mic off to her and sat back down on the couch sheepishly.

To be fair, I‘m sure I did look pretty amusing and had I not been going through what I was going through at the time, I probably could look back and laugh at it now. But I was hurting, and not because some horrible guy had decided to dump me like I was trash, but because I had allowed myself to feel, and once I did, I got dumped like trash. I don’t allow myself to feel often because when I do, I can’t turn it off. I don’t mean that in the crazy Glenn Close Fatal Attraction kind of way. I’m not even exclusively talking about the intimate kind of feeling either. I’m talking about simply showing emotions, period. I’m as sensitive as an open wound, and I hate it.

Hence, my love affair with Art.

I didn’t want to let go and just be in the moment when I was singing that Deniece Williams song, but my heart just wouldn’t let me be. Art brings out the real me. I can’t hide behind It, because It always reveals whatever needs to be brought to light from my life, at that particular time.

When many people think of Art they may think of visual art exclusively, such as a painting or a drawing, but It’s so much more beyond what the eye can see. Art is the universal term for self-expression personified (my definition). Poetry is art. Writing is art. Dancing is art. Art is an extension of who we are as individuals, and I don’t care who you are, everyone has something they do to release their emotions to in turn relinquish their sanity.

I struggle with low self-esteem, anxiety, and depression. I actually have a fear that I’m such an odd person that, aside from my family, I will end up alone one day. I have days where you can’t tell me anything: I know I’m amazing. Then I have days where I literally just want to jump off a cliff, for whatever reason. Whenever those dark, negative thoughts creep into my mind I immediately pick up a pen and a piece of paper and I go to town. Whether it's through a short story or a drawing, I make sure I get whatever parasite that’s sucking away at my joy out on whatever form of medium I just so happen to choose, so I can face whatever I may be feeling head on as opposed to holding it all in.

Life, as beautiful and as wondrous as it can be sometimes, is not for the faint of heart. It isn’t easy and we all need a healthy means of escape sometimes. Art grants me the permission to be whoever I want to be, however I want to be, for however long I need to be. So when I was singing that Deniece Williams song that night in front of my family, I was letting go of the girl who fights so hard to constantly keep it together; who always wears a smile even when it hurts; who’s basically a robot half the time. I let the lyrics take me away to a place that I so desperately needed to go.

Now, I’m no Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston or Celine Dion. The point I’m trying to make is, authenticity is a beautiful thing. It’s a freeing thing. There’s only so much water a balloon can take before it bursts. So now, whenever I feel my balloon about to burst, I slide a nice little canvas under it and let it pop and voila! A masterpiece. Some of my best work has come from me being completely transparent and honest with myself, and I’m sure many other artists can say the same.

Art, to me, is everything that gets left unsaid. It’s raw. Art to me is an old, grainy Kodak photo of me and my family caught in a candid moment from back in the day. Art to me is the cold rush you get after you finish a Stephen King novel. Taking part in someone else’s work is one thing, but to be on the side as the creator itself feels like stepping into an alternative universe, where you’re God and your work is your puppet, and your medium is your string. Art empowers where I may otherwise feel powerless, and allows me a soundproof enclosure to shout out in a world that’s unfortunately often devoid of genuine emotion.

So, when did I know Art was the one for me? I knew when I realized that without It I’d be voiceless.

When I Knew Art Was the One for Me was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.