• Polina Gazeeva

What My Art Means To Me

It sort of means everything. While I know there are other things to me than what I create, I also think there is really no me without my art. I would be a shapeless form with nothing inside. My art is what makes me, me. And it is hard. Because it is hard to always be making things, or feeling like you have to. Even though, as an artist, I do feel very confident about myself, it can still be very painful. Sometimes, looking back at what I have made a month or a year ago, I don't feel good about it. And then, if I question my art, then I how can I not question myself? Maybe it is not a bad thing, as it allows me to and pushes me to do more and to grow. But then that fragile confidence is the base of my whole understanding of myself as a person. And that fragility is dangerous. But, if I am honest, I don’t want it any other way. Why would I? Feels a little masochistic, but also right.

It is funny to identify yourself through your art. So here is my painting. Look. That is everything that I am, everything that is inside of me. Right here, in front of your eyes. How did it happen that this image I created resembles my whole being (or does it even? I don’t know.) “So what is the painting about then?” I don’t know. It is about me, about how I feel. It is about being upset, angry, in love. It is about my body and how I see it, how I feel it, what I want to do to it. It is about pain, frustration, happiness, desire, emptiness, violence and warmth. (just underline what fits the best). It is about my mind.

And then I am angry at people for not understanding. How can you not see that what you are looking at right now is everything. How can you not see how much pain there is? How can you look at it and stay indifferent? Don’t you feel exactly the same inside? How can someone not? (But maybe some people actually don't feel it. This confuses me a lot). Don’t you understand this clusterfuck of feelings and thoughts right in front of you? Don't you hear me screaming? (Or what if I am not that good yet?!) I feel offended. But then, when someone does actually see, I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed for my mind being the mess that it is. I start feeling as if someone has read my diary, where I wrote all of the secrets and fucked up things I think of and wish for. But I enjoy it. I like it, when people understand. It means that they feel the same, because only those who do, can see it. And I like knowing that other people are screwed up too. It makes them more interesting.

If I am my art, and my art is what I am, then this is a vicious cycle that doesn’t make any sense.

But fortunately, it doesn’t need to make sense. Not to me, at least most of the time. Painting is nearly the only thing in my life I do not question. It exists on its own. I paint, and it feels right. Nothing else does. Everything else I do for a reason, or a goal, or it has a clear explanation. I paint, because I paint. And then my day feels complete and so does my life for a moment.

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