I was faced with a bit of a challenge the past few days. Any creative knows that when you send your work out into the world you are offering up a bit of yourself, sharing something that perhaps you normally keep tucked away somewhere. There is most definitely a vulnerability in sharing our work.
But how much is actually necessary?
Some would argue that you need to bare your soul, share every intimate moment and stand naked in front of the crowd throwing at them “This is me folks, faults and all-here you go!”
If that works for you, awesome!
And if that doesn’t work for you-I am right there with ya!
See, I think that there is an vulnerability that comes in creating art-whether it be poetry, a painting, a story or music. There is an unearthing that happens where your emotions are all churned up and you are basically dumping them all on the paper or canvas and then hoping you are able to meld them into something. That is often the case for me anyway.
Other times, I am just in the mood to create and it’s fun and happy and I am writing poetry based on writing prompts and it’s not nearly as vulnerable a place.
Regardless of the process, I feel it’s important to be unabashed in the creative process. Whether writing, drawing, painting or singing for me, I need to feel safe and secure as I rip down the walls and throw my feelings onto paper.
And I can’t do that with just anyone.
Once I have gone through the process, the work is all done, fined tuned and is what I decide to share with the world I do-and let them run with it. They can interpret, analyze and internalize all they like and I am happy to share where I came from in creating it.
However, to let just anyone in on the process? I feel that kind of vulnerability does more damage than good.
The past few weeks my daughter has found her legs and has been officially promoted to walker. In the beginning she happily charged across the carpet in our living room, eyes wide, giggling as she ran from my husband to me. However, if you placed her in the kitchen, the hard floor made her more cautious and she would test out her feet a bit first. Outside, she would cling to my legs, looking up crying for me to pick her up.
And of course, I would.
She didn’t feel safe out there. It was big, and wide and uneven. There were things like rocks, gravel and sticks.
At first anyway. Then slowly we showed her she was safe. We were there supporting, loving her and that in her time, when she was ready, she would walk there too.
And she is.
So here is to the artists, the poets, the writers who empty their souls onto paint and canvas so we may have a glimpse into our own.