I don’t know why, but whenever I create something, something I really like and am proud of, I can’t stop looking at it. Even when I’m in the middle of creating it, I keep coming back to it, even when I don’t need to. And not with the intention of re-working it, but rather just to gaze at it and adore.
I am a visual artist, but quite honestly, I have not created a “work of art” in a bit. I have mostly been creating blog posts and working on my podcast. I have always tried to trust whatever creative energy flows out of me, no matter the form it takes, so right now, my blog posts feel like my “works of art.” (cue eye roll from pretentious declaration)
Screenshot of my blog home page. Isn’t she a beaute?!
I legit can’t stop looking at my blog lately. It’s to the point where I will turn on my computer, like actually take the time to boot it up, just to kind of look at my blog and poke around. I might make some tweaks here and there to an upcoming post, or maybe I’ll get sidetracked and begin a new project, or invest in another person’s article, post, or creation. But really, I’m just going on there to admire my shit.
Works of art, in any form, are really just extensions of ourselves. To me, each one feels like one of my little babies, and I’m not even a mother (hopefully someday). I remember when my twin nieces were born, and holding them when they were two weeks old definitely invoked that dopey mother love hormone. I didn’t need to bore them in order to adore them. They just emitted something precious and my body responded to their tenderness of being. It’s the same way with my art. Sort of.
I did some brief research online to see if I could find anything that normalizes this phenomenon, but all I really found was the Pygmalion character in Greek mythology. Am I losing my touch with basic internet searching? I thought my addiction-to-admiring-my-shit thing was like something that artists experienced. This Pygmalion myth doesn’t exactly apply, since this is more about a sculptor creating a human statue and falling in love with it. The story eventually wraps up with a cathartic, statue-come-to-life ending. This isn’t really what I experience at all. I don’t really personify my creations, I simply love them.
I mean, if I made something this beautiful, I’d probably fall in love with it too. Apologies, I don’t know the name of this sculpture, but it’s at Am lustgarten 1, 10178 Berlin, Germany.
I find I do the same thing sometimes when I construct a really thoughtful email. Even if it’s a work email, or a not-fun, confrontational kind of email to a friend or family member. When I put lots of work into it, curating every word, for some reason, even after I click send, I often open my sent folder to re-read the email, like maybe even more than once. And it’s not to make sure I said everything correctly, but more just to relish my efforts.
Maybe I’m just obsessed with myself? To circle around to Greek mythology again for a sec, am I teetering on the edge of Narcissus-ness? I don’t think so, since Narcissus turned away all romantic opportunities in favor of staring at his own reflection in a pool of water. No, I never deny an opportunity to be loved and adored by another, and I enjoy my healthy romantic partnership every day. And in no way am I an actual narcissist, I don’t think. I have a feeling my therapist boyfriend would actually let me know if I was. I know this term is thrown around in society to describe a person who displays any indication of self-obsession, but narcissism is a genuinely destructive mental disorder, characterized by a person who “is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others,” among other things. That’s not me, and hopefully those closest to me agree.
So what is it, then? Dare I say it may be a healthy sense of self-worth? I’m not saying it is, but I’m not saying it isn’t. And why do I even feel sheepish to admit this? Humility is 100% celebrated at all times, in all people, always. Self-pride is up for debate, especially if it’s coming from a woman. I’m not meaning to turn this political, and I don’t mean anything against men or women, or anything of the sort. It’s just interesting that I feel somewhat ashamed to admit I freely love my shit and can’t stop enjoying it. I mean really, how dare I?
This post has no conclusion, and is rather an authentic declaration of feelings. Does anyone in the world relate, or am I alone on this one? I would love to hear your stories of self-celebration with regards to your creations.
Thank you for reading my rambles as always, and until next time…
Featured photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Photo of sculpture by Pavel Nekoranec on Unsplash