At the raw age of three, my father took me by the hand--his aged fingers wrapping around my young ones--and guided my stumbling feet to the wonders of this world. The sun hit my eyelids and I felt the prick of the thorn for the first time, from the roses my mother grew in her little garden. We lived a humble life, in a small apartment, secluded but happy in our town. After school, my brother and I would get our knees bruised and toes muddied playing under the summer sun. Spring would bring long walks to the ice cream shop and trailing after stray kittens. We'd come home under the stars and stumble through the woods when the moon had risen. In the depths of the night's darkness, we'd listen to crickets and the trains passing in a distance.
I held my first camera at a young age--around the same time--a small, cheap and bulky 90's camera. Perhaps unknowingly, I had touched one of my first passions. I became the child that wore braids to school, in strawberry dresses, and wrote poems underneath maple trees, with its light drawing patters on my scratched legs. I went on long walks among the spring blossoms that lined my elementary school, and discovered squirrels following me home. I may have not been a complete wallflower, but I became a wanderlust. Dragonflies circled my head; my fingernails were coated with layers of paint or chalk dust and my eyelids full of sleepy dreams. I chased chipmunks and ran underneath the stars. From the mud in my father's tomato garden, I created miniature clay statues. It was then my fingers and mind began to crave creativity.
About twelve years later, I came across bumps across the road. I began keeping to myself, behind closed doors and drawn blinds. Finally, the camera I picked up all those years before made its way back into my life. On a warm, summer night in June three years ago, I held my first very own camera. I remember my first photograph: the saltshakers on our dinner table. From there, my camera became a constant companion, scratched and broken, repaired and replaced--but my passion stayed the same. As my work improved and I gained publicity, I began recieving comments: "Oh you have nice photos..your camera must be really good!" or "I love your photos, what camera do you have?". For a while, my camera began to catch dust and I felt like the magic in my fingers had disappeared. After all, it wasn't my talent..it was my camera's, right? Wrong.I realized that even if you hand a standard phone camera to two different people, they will produced entirely different results. A photographer is not made of his camera, but a of his talent.
Then I began to share my work online, places like DeviantArt and Facebook, where I built a community of lovely friends from all over the world. To them I am eternally thankful, and there support is the only thing that gives me confidence today.
But the thing about the internet is that there are as many cruel people as there are wonderful, kind-hearted ones. Artists, being open with your work and sharing your inspiration on the internet takes as much courage as it does confidence. Remember at first that if you don't succeed, try and try again. People may laugh, mock, or even ignore. But if art is your passion, remember that others do not have the right to come between it and yourself. Every artist has been through that trough, a ditch where you can't see anything, but wish to see something--anything. It's perfectly normal to feel down, upset, and blue. At one point in time, though, we've all climbed out, and if art was truly our passion, then we even succeeded. Living a life of an artist, of a wanderluster, is not an easy one, but maybe the most rewarding. To see the world in an entirely different light is a burdensome but extraordinary task, one that knits each and every one of us to the quilt we share as artists.
