Inspiration
is something I don’t find easily. Art is an amazing form of self expression. Anything and everything can be art, from the clothes we wear to the homes we live in. I’m a photographer, but it’s not often I find inspiration in something. People say I’m an artist, I hardly think so. I push a little button on my camera and it captures an image. That’s about it. But I’m curious, what constitutes an artist? Who decides whether or not the five year old girl drawing the hippo in her head is an artist? Am I an artist? It’s a title I’m uncomfortable with. I would love to think I am, but my ego lacks the ability to say so. To consider myself an artist would be to categorize myself with the likes of Monet, Renoir, Picasso, Matisse and many other geniuses from history. I just finished an Art History class and I came across this painting by Marc Tobey. I fell in love as soon as I found it. A depiction of Broadway in NYC, it was painted in 1935. I had to buy it. It’s not only the city where I hope to live, but I feel it a representation of my life. Lines shooting out everywhere from every which way. It’s busy, crazy, loud, quiet, messy, confusing and yet still holds its beauty. But what is beauty? Oh Lord, this is getting too deep…
