The drive to create art, which is the desire to put into metaphor that which is concrete, a tangible expression of an intangible experience, existed in us since we were born.
The creative drive forms anew daily and accumulates between our bones, gaining momentum and shape.
Then, expecting escape, it finds itself imprisoned when our mouths close in embarrassment, our arms fold in defiance.
Inner creative voices are not meant to stay inside skin walls.
If left too long, a foreigner inside our nervous system, they take on a life of their own. They clog up our throats and twist our stomach, contorting into something else entirely.
They weigh us down, the flash inspiration of the paintings meant to be painted, the verses meant to be song silenced.
This life that was meant to be exhilarating and breathtaking becomes monotonous and painful.
The very medicine which was meant to color our lives instead turns it black.
Because the art that lives within us is meant to be our fire. But fire without direction incinerates us.
So we have to create then, don’t we?
Except that it’s scary. Because there’s always a possibility that our art may be horrible. It may be judged.
What I’m saying is: That’s okay.
Let it be horrible. It doesn’t matter.
Because “horrible” art is a springboard for better ideas.
Horrible is a step.
Horrible art means we are on our journey. We are part of the dialogue.
Horrible art means our creative brains are ticking, our creative voices are being heard.
While our egos may run away from the possibility of horrible art, our inner child couldn’t care less.
Horrible art means hope exists. Horrible art is still fun.
So position those hands over the keyboard. Connect those fingers with blue, dripping paint.
Ideas raise us higher as they leave us. So let it be horrible.
Only through being actively horrible artists, can we become great.
