The Art of Identity

One of my favorite things about working with charcoal is going out to the local market afterward without checking my face. People must think I’m the new chimney sweep.

Yesterday, the cashier laughed when she noticed the smudges on my face. She asked, "What are you up to today?!" After a moment of realization about my battle scars, I answered, "I’ve been drawing and painting this morning." Her response was a delighted, "Oh! You’re an artist?" It caught me off guard. I was about to say, “No”, but suddenly I proudly affirmed, "I am." Unexpectedly, I found myself in a conversation about my latest creative adventures.

I’ve worn other titles before without so much issue, but calling myself an “artist”? This was something I had not felt I could say, especially when I looked the caliber of artists who I admired and whose works inspired me.

But here I was calling myself an artist, and I thought, “What took me so long?”

It might be that, for the longest time, I was waiting for some official validation or a significant milestone in my work that would make me feel like I truly belonged to the art community. Yet, in that simple, funny exchange, amidst the smudges of charcoal and laughter, it occurred to me that being an artist isn't about reaching a pinnacle of skill or recognition, but about embracing the process of creating and the identity that comes with it.

This morning, I caught my reflection and wiped away the black dust of my charcoal shenanigans painted across my face. But from now on, on the days I forget to check myself and step out into the world with smudges, I’ll wear them like medals of honor—because I am an artist.