I can do it, right?

These days are pretty intense and stressing, but they give me lot of satisfaction indeed. It’s time to move in my new home with my partner, and this is actually the first time in years for me (since I was a little child, at least). I’m nervous and excited at the same time, and this schizophrenic mood affects my work a lot.


I can not paint if not reluctantly, and is one of the worst things to do as an artist, I suppose. I mean, not to be…fresh and spontaneous in your works. All my sketches seems to be really bad, or at least not as I wanted them, and the result is not always acceptable. Everything seems a great waste of time and I end up wondering whether it is worth, trying to give birth to something that doesn’t want to come to life at all.

And then I realize that perhaps this is the point. The core. The button that triggers everything, that makes a person with a brush in his hand or her hand a real artist. The struggling with your inner self and your intentions. Giving birth is a very difficult thing, I know. I have not tried the physical experience of childbirth, but I heard stories and I’m experiencing the similar “stuck on something” sensation and pain as I draw, so I guess it requires a great willpower and an extraordinary concentration. Not something you can see everyday.

Connect with your inner self is not easy. Meditation can serve, yoga can serve. But if you’re not gonna answer your call itself, from the inside, well . Perhaps even prayers would not be enough to help you. And then I also thought of letting the pain to manifest. Mental contractions and soul must arrive if I want to give birth to ideas, lines and colors. It’s not something that can happen without a minimum of investment and involvement, a deeply emotional commitment.

It ‘s funny because I always thought about art, drawing and stuff as something as extremely simple as the flow of water in a river bed. Never thought was more wrong, I guess. To draw, to paint, to create in fact requires (at least on a personal level, and that’s what I discovered these days), an endless internal, complex and often emotionally destabilizing research.

All this topic is sure obvious to many of you. But to understand that what you do is not at all a game and, in fact , is much more serious than many other daily activities that the society presents as very serious activities (as get a job, take care of your house, of the family, have commitments to respect), it is enlightning. It ‘s like having understood that there is a step to do: I can stay on a mediocre level (as a personal investment, I mean) and let the art flow around me gaily and freely, or I can make my art something that can touch me and others in depth.

And I suppose to know the answer.

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Waking Life (and the art of letting go)

Never thought about drawing in my file. I mean, actual and real drawing, not that thing you usually do in your math class, bored. First because I didn’t know where and how to start; in second place, because I’ve thought for a very long time I was unable to. I’ve always seen those beautiful, colorful and (almost) perfect drawings and illustration on Deviantart, then Facebook, Instagram and so on. But everytime I tried to commit myself into this thing, drawing magnificent pieces of art, I was defeated by my lazyness. I didn’t find my style, and that were actually the problem: I was copying and, though I am a very good impressionist, I can’t be another artist. I was cheating.

I realize it in June, 2015. I was sick at home and my eyes just stared at the wooden box of Winsor & Newton’s watercolor my boyfriend gave me for my birthday. Untouched for nearly three months. I opened it and simply started to paint, without any inner judgment or expectation. What came up was very nice to me, and I was radiant: first time in my life, I’ve made something by my own, not searching on Pinterest or Instagram for any suggestion, style ideas, or everything else. There were me and my tools, my paper, my ideas.


Not so simple, I mean letting (actually) go all the voices in my head saying that I wasn’t good enough, that people wouldn’t appreciate my works because they were too simple and plain. The strongest part of me screamed out for a metaphorical silence, just asking acceptance. Respect. Expecting those two things from me, to start. And hoping to find them also in the other’s words.

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