I mean, who really wants to read plain, boring text with no pictures at all?
Imagine flipping through an edition of Vogue, without the glossy images; or finding dialogues floating askew in comic panels, without characters or backgrounds; like no artwork at all.
How painfully boring.
Now coming to think of it, the history of Art; how it all began, centuries earlier, starting with crude lines representing human figures and animals on walls of caves; and how much it has drastically kept evolving and getting diversified over the years.
Just about how your own artwork has done so, from since you were two years old…
You tasted the candy pink colour from your first box of crayons, and instead, decided to use it productively on your dull grey room wall.
You made cutesy wootsy greeting cards with coloured cardboard and shimmering glitter for your friends; the closer the friend, the more the glitter.
You picked story books with lots and lots of pictures, and bright rainbow colours; and imagined clouds and constellations forming weird creatures and things.
You decided to get those glow-in-the-dark skeleton stickers to scare your sister.
You fought with mom for the first time ever, to have a heart shaped birthday cake instead of a circular one that year; and to get a pair of new shoes that matched your new shirt.
You spent hours together creating stories with the tiny creatures you made out of dough; that were all quietly thrown away when spotted rotting behind a pile of toys by your frowning maid.
You wondered what would happen on muttering 1 to 10 thrice at top speed, sitting alone in front of a candle at midnight.
You slept soundly, warmly tucked in bed after a fairy tale, dreaming if life would be a bed of roses, with everyone’s story really ending with a ‘lived happily ever after’.
You tried to knit. You tried to knit again.
And then, just like that, everything from candles to furniture to accessories came attached with the tag ‘designer’.
You had about twenty doodles of your lecturers at the end of every Maths class on the back pages of your book.
You wore torn clothes, grew your hair wild, and listened to howling singers who broke guitars.
You wanted to shout, shout, and let it all out.
You got startled suspicious glances as you sketched silently, solemnly, at crowded bus stops and railway stations; with moms hankering after their hyper active kids, pointedly threatening them to keep away from strangers.
You wanted, wanted, needed, and wanted those oversized Tees with psychedelic graphics.
Every occasion became a huge extravaganza, diversifying and converging art with media.
You squinted at the range of underwear, socks, hats and banners, flashing gaudily in CMYK’s Y that the FIFA season brought in, with every trivial entity under the sun in yellow piling up on the street pavements; until Brazil was in that is.
You chose the most isolated corner at home and practiced sketching nudes, that made your 80 year old granny blush.
You tore through the reviews in art journals on those pricey paintings and sculptures with unrecognizable forms and drastic colours, which finally seemed to make some sense with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
You gazed at the stark, deeply etched wrinkles, the cracked dry skin on the old beggar’s face, intriguingly peering at you from the photograph. The photographer drove away with millions of dollars from the auction. The old beggar continued to beg by the pavement.
Someone made figures and forms on a mound of sand by the beach for World Peace, and called it art. Someone else took all the trouble of signing on a urinal, and still called it art.
So much for ‘contemporary’.
You were free; free from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for everything, from doing only what others approve of.
You looked. You opened your eyes wide and looked. You looked upside down. You looked at the horizon. You looked at your toes.
You looked at people. You looked at your dreams. You looked at yourself.
To get creative.
Being creative. Looking at what every single person has looked at, and thinking of what no one else has thought of.
Developing into a creative person involves playing a different role than what you usually do. Breaking the routine. Taking up things that are artistically and technically challenging.
Getting lost, finding yourself. Doing what you love, changing what you don’t. Rearranging your priorities, living your dream.
A true artist opens his mind, arms and heart to new things and new people, and creates things with them. Meaningful things and beautiful relationships. He respects both time and space. He chooses his proximity or distance, to hold on or let go; to keep things at their best, choose the kind of relationships that last long term, and leave good memories untouched, untarnished.
Being artistic is that attitude to life that makes you live differently, completely, as you grow, learn and express. It pushes your hesitation beyond doubts, even to make mistakes. Or taking second chances. Challenging your boundaries like never before. Staying crazy enough to change things, and stick to decisions. Growing beyond yourself, by forgiving; yourself first, then the rest.
It makes you see beauty, in all emotions. Appreciate every last bite that you eat. Respect people, and relationships.
So stop settling down with things.
Create something new, and wonderful.
Tear things down and make stuff.
Make really cool stuff.
Move ahead, make more.
Bottom line: get going.
Create your world!
Your own artwork, thriving on your imagination, expression and ideas.
Now if you really thought that there was no art here at all from the misleading title, think again.