Are You an artist? (The wrong question, part 2)

I was about 7 years old the first time I remember feeling inadequate.

As an artist, that is…

But I didn’t use the “A” word back then. Nor would I for at least another 2 decades.

I had this friend whose name was Skip. Obviously, his real name wasn’t Skip. It was a nickname, as in reality, he was named after his father, whose name was Harry. Meaning that my friend’s name was Harry as well. How we got from “Harry” to “Skip,” I may never know.

The name “Harry” would be a super cool name to have had we been 7 years old about 10-15 years later… but in the early 90s? It would be tough to be named Harry, let’s just skip it.

Oh! Hey! Maybe… I guess we’ll never know.

I spent the night at his house a few times when I was young. A sleepover is just the ultimate social experience when you’re young, isn’t it? You have this weird chance to live their life with them. Eat their breakfast, get tucked in by their parents, and use their toothpaste. For a weird little existential kid like me, it was as close to an out of body experience as I’ve ever had.

I was in awe of how my friend lived his life. He had one younger brother, while I was one of seven children. I would never complain about my life. I had/have amazing parents, but the things my friend had were positively shocking.

His parents read him a chapter a night from “the Hobbit.” They went for a walk around their block every evening. I believe I had toaster waffles for the first time at his house.

I didn’t even know you could do that with a waffle.

But the most interesting thing in the house of this secret Harry, known to me as Skip was a particular space in his house. There were three bedrooms, but rather than split Skip and his brother Andrew into separate rooms, the family did something else with it.

It was an art room.

An art room? I was shocked by this, as someone who spent most of his time either drawing or reading, I couldn’t imagine even the concept of a room that was just for art. There was paper, and pencils, and markers. There was also modeling clay, the kind that never dries out. I was astounded. I asked my friend why his house had a room, just for art.

“Because,” he said, without much fanfare, “because I’m an artist.”

An artist? Already? But he’s only seven, and it’s my dream to be an artist. Has been since I was five, and… he has achieved my dream already? At seven years old, this young man has an illustrious title, and his own studio.

Are you an artist?

I asked this question to a bunch of middle school students. I have an illustration club for the students I teach, and I took advantage of the attention I briefly had a few weeks ago to ask this question. I ask myself this question a lot, and I’m always disappointed by the answer.

It’s not really an answer, most of the time. It’s usually an excuse.

Are you an artist?

Well, you see… I haven’t been doing it for very long…

It’s just that, there are so many people who are really good…

Well, I don’t make money off of art, so…

Are you an artist?

It’s the wrong question, once again. You know it as soon as you ask it, and see the panic fill the room. The imposter syndrome. The desperate plea to change the subject. There is a better question to ask.

What’s an artist? Why is it that what you do doesn’t count? (At least, to you?)

No one was an artist in my club meet that day. Ask me if I’m an artist, and I will hesitate like no tomorrow. I know the answer, but still… I can’t help but think about the first artist I ever met. Seven years old, his own studio, well versed in the works of Tolkien.

It’s unfair to compare myself to other artists, but I think that guy really had it all figured out.

It’s a stupid word, and I hate it.

Artist. Why are so many people afraid of that word? Why am I afraid of it? When you look it up, and see what it really means, I mean, it’s such a low bar to find yourself so intimidated. For all the suffering, all the time invested… you would think it would be so much simpler to just … ease that badge of honor onto your drooping shoulders.

It took me a lot longer than seven years to call myself an artist. I think I’ll save that story for another time.

I’ll bet my friend, wherever he is, goes by Harry now. Because he’s a wizard. Called himself an artist and wasn’t afraid.