Medium

Art is a funny thing.  For me, the word has always conjured painters and sculptors.  Artists working in mediums that I will never be conversant in.

I cannot draw.  I am amazed by people who color to relax, because I want to color like artists do, with perfect colors and shading, and my attempts leave me unsatisfied.  I try to content myself with staying inside the lines and being neat. 

I have tried to paint, with pretty much the same results as coloring and drawing.  I bought myself a set of watercolors to dabble in, the purpose being to play with colors, not necessarily to create anything recognizable.  However, the desire to create something remotely resembling what I consider art is still there.

I envy writers and poets.  Words as a medium to educate or to create an escape from reality.  Words wielded with surgical precision.  My stories are gone.  The ones I've heard will beat any fiction you can think of and are locked away within my brain.  I cannot tell them; they are not mine to share.

I've played with clay.  I've played with mosaics.  I have tried so many things that represent art to me.

I've been watching Chef's Table on Netflix. It's been both stunning and inspiring.  Beautifully shot, the interviews are amazing windows into the creative process.  Whether intended or not, food is the art; food is their medium.  The consensus is that you have to find your voice.

It has taken me this long to realize that wool and cotton and embroidery silks are my medium.  I've been conversant with them since I was 9 years old.   Singing quietly in the corner all this time; it's time to find my voice.