Is the journey over or just stalled? I wonder as I slump down into a cafe armchair with dark roast coffee warming my hand. I stretch out my legs and rest them against the large stones of the fireplace in front of me. It is summer so the fire itself is out, and I wonder, is the fire of my art dream also out? Or is it just temporarily snuffed with the embers still burning?
Beside me I place an envelope full of just printed out resumes. I have gone as far as I can living off of nothing but hopes and dreams; Mr noodles and Mac and Cheese. Now I find I must face the reality of facing reality. Bills are coming due, fridges are going empty, and rent needs to be paid. I doubt my building manager will take a piece of artwork in exchange for rent, although the thought of trying amuses me and I am almost tempted.
I rest back into the suede seat, brooding now as I look thoughtfully forward at my future. I have an offer from Mokka House Shoal point for a coffee hose wide display come the end of summer and although I told them I would do it, I now wonder if the cost and work of framing and hanging so many pieces would be worth the time and cost. What tangible benefit would I get from it? I question. Most people are not like the artist friend and I; they don’t go to coffee shops to admire the artwork. No, they order coffee and bury themselves in conversation, laptops and schoolwork. As I take a sip of my own coffee, I try to distract my introspective mind by listening to the conversation around me.
Most of the ones in the coffee shop that night are UVIC students, and I listen to groups talk together about finals, term papers and grad papers. They all sound so confident, I think, so sure of themselves. They know exactly what they are majoring in, studying for, working towards; they have a concrete end in sight. And me? I’m not sure if there is an end for a professional artist. To be an artist means continual growth, change, and experimentation. We don’t get nice big PASS mark written on our latest experimental paint and glitter piece. We don’t get graded in tangible letters. We just create and throw our souls out to by judged by all of humanity. Where one person will give a pass, the other will mark the work a complete failure. I know, because I have done both to other artists.
I look out at the crowded room and all the students gathered in groups around tables. I feel envy towards them tonight, envy for the stability of their existence. Envy for the ability to be content with a normal 9-5 life. Me? I tried one month of office work and didn’t even make it through the whole month before being overcome with intense creative frustration and boredom. There are only so many ways you can file a letter. A person doesn’t necessarily make a conscious choice to be an artist I think, but sometimes art chooses them. As an artist you can force yourself to work a regular job, but for a true artist the need to create will still burn a hole inside, sometimes being let out safely and sometimes bursting and throwing your whole life into chaos like it did me. Now I sit in the ruins of the chaos wondering where to go next. I switch my gaze from the students and into the empty fireplace. The need to create is still there, the ember still glowing. No, I think, this is not the end of the dream, it is just a small detour.
