Am I an artist?

Written sometime in 2020. Pulled from a note I didn’t know I still had.

Am I an artist? I don’t know.

What makes you an artist? Is it what you make? Is it your emotion? Is it your expression? Is it what form it takes? Is it your sympathy? Is it what you see? What you hear? What you say? Does it have to be physical? Can you be an artist and never express it? Can you be an artist and no one knows it? Do people have to see your art? Do people have to see you?

I’m not a painter. not a good one at least.
I’m not a sculptor.
I’m not a musician.
I’m clearly not a good poet.
I’m not an architect.
I’m a so-so cook.

But why do I feel like an artist? Is it because of practice? I’ve never felt particularly gifted in any area. Maybe it’s talent? But anyone can put words on paper, paint on canvas. Where’s my expression? What’s my voice? My corner of intellectual expression that I claim? My screaming defiance of the world? No one tells me what to do and what to say.

Is that being an artist? Being different? Not being afraid to tell the truth? To tell the world something is wrong, something needs to change? I feel like I have something to say but I just haven’t found the words to say it quite yet. Maybe it’s not even verbal. Maybe it’s a grouping of colors or a song. I feel it, but it’s trapped. It’s somewhere in me but I can’t for the life of me find a way to get it out. Can I still be an artist? Trust me, if I found a way to express it I would. I just haven’t found it yet.

I’m an artist. The artist without expression.