Art is like butterflies. It is not about the hands, but the wings.
Whatever you create, it is art.
Art is not about impressing people.
Art is not about being realistic and 3D,
but the process, the meaning, the words and stories behind, and/or the intention.
"What makes you create this?"
"What do you want people to take away from this?"
"How did you do this?"
Art is psychology.
Art is poetry.
Art is philosophy and wisdom.
Art is self-expression.
Art is a passion.
I couldn’t tell you how to be an artist. Nobody could.
Not even Art Schools, not even professional artists.
My mom always mock my works,
she’s saying "it has really big eyes", etc.
My sister keep telling me,
“why are your drawings are like these? Make it beautiful!”
"It’s ugly. Can you make it better?"
My old best friend commented on my painting.
“Look! It has hotdog on the face,” she said and laugh so hard after.
My brother-in-law looked at my painting and he said to his daughter
"Oh, a dog." But that is a face. And his tone is serious and innocent.
People always give comments. Even though I never asked for it.
It hurts. It makes me feel so small. I kills my faith on my passion. But despite everything, I continue to create. I continue to learn. I still hear criticisms. But I know now how to handle it.
Art keeps artists sane. It suffices the needs of their minds.
If you are born artist, you’ll die artist.
If you are not born artist, but you really want to be one, study.
My BUTTERFLY icon symbolizes my perspective in anything, specially in life, art and writing.
BUTTERFLIES. FREEDOM, PEACE, COURAGE, TRUTH, BEAUTY, RECKLESSNESS, FRAGILITY, STRANGENESS, METAMORPHOSIS.
WILDFLOWERS. DON’T DIE. CONTINUE TO GROW AND MULTIPLY. BE ORIGINAL. IT’S BEAUTIFUL, NO MATTER WHAT.
I wanted to tell you, “no, don’t kill yourself,” but I can’t. Because I know exactly what are you feeling.
I feel also empty, lonely, like nobody wants to talk to me, even though they are free and not busy. I feel like I have no friend. I feel like I’m with no one. I can’t even determine what’s so wrong with me.
Every time I’m feeling this, I don’t know what to do. I do not cut. I do not do drugs. I have no way of escape except from art and writing. But I can’t create art when I am feeling devastated inside. I can’t fall asleep because I’m over-thinking. I can’t eat because I’m worrying. I can’t write because words are not coming, all failing. I can’t do anything, because I am absolutely feeling lonely and empty.
I’m trying to talk to people, but they are not interested of anything about me. I’m trying to go outside and have a walk but it’s still lonely. I’m trying to paint, write, draw, blog, but it is not working. I don’t know what to do.
Sometimes, I feel some kind of hope, because of the lies I continue to tell myself. Sometimes, I feel, “omg, this is it,” but it’s still not. I’m just fooling myself in order to create temporary happiness.
Right now, I’m still alive, hoping for a better tomorrow, wishing to have no more sorrow, and to have friends and be happy already.
I chose to carry on even though I have thousand valid reasons to give up. I don’t know the exact reason behind that.
Sorry, if I didn’t answer your question straightforwardly. This is all I can say to you for now because I’m also suffering loneliness and emptiness right now.