I have left my shelter, I have shown my works and my freedom is over. Now I understand the embarrassment an artist feels when showing his works in person. No reaction is satisfying: applause? Fantastic if it is heart felt, but what if it is only politeness or lack of understanding? Critique? Very few people are bold enough to criticize unless they are mental thugs or jealous rivals. And then there is the plethora of little nothings: oh, well… interesting… curious…well, I mean…not bad… which means it is bad! Or the attempt to keep silent, now that is pure horror! There is no such a thing as good reaction. Each gives the artist food for thought or brings him to his knees in despair. But why despair at all? After all, in the act of creation I am above it all, when I place my tools down, like a surgeon after an operation, I should know whether the patient is alive or dead!
Ok, ok, I was made to toe the line by my colleague. Nothing concrete, but he established this hierarchy of master and student, with my role clearly stated as the latter. But there is no criticism, only this loan of goodwill for the adept of art. What do with it? I go to the workshop and pour forth this mixture of feelings. I am a grown up woman, taking lessons at my age is a feat. Especially, if you remember your achievements, oops, it hurts. But, fine, let me go back to my desk, let me learn and be thankful for it. I created a work of art and feel relief, I have learned and created a picture, a picture is a word, let’s enjoy the dialogue.
