I see things other people create and I want to create something. I recognize and appreciate art on some primal level. I revel in it, even. But for some reason I am pegged as a consumer, a voyeur, and not as an artist. Music, movies, television, comic books, novels. I consume but I do not produce.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. There are a few feeble attempts at artistry. Misbegotten sketched scenes for layouts that will never bear fruit. Brief beginnings for stories without plot. Half-formed ideas of grand design that will never be wrought. Every now and then the bug bites me and I am consumed by a need to do something artistic. This bears no fruit, merely the remains of unskilled, half-formed efforts that are not worth the materials expended.
I am no graphic artist for my sketches are misshapen objects of pity. My eyes see many things, both there and imagined, but I am ill-equipped to translate them. I fear I am no writer. With practice, perhaps I could aspire to a mediocre tale of places and beings, perhaps more. But I fear my efforts would be for naught and I suspect this restrains me. I know how to frame a shot, what makes for a good photograph, though I have no desire to pursue photography beyond mere point-and-click. Music is a friend, a lover, a passion. Though I lack the background, and the inclination, to compose, music I enjoy is a true delight.
I am an artist without a medium. There is something I could create, of that I am positive. It is simply that I have yet to find my method of translation. My mind can conjure up a thousand and one images in a second. If only I knew what to do with them, how to share them.
Until I decipher my riddle, I continue consuming. Every vision absorbed, every story unfolded, every image considered fuels my imagination. Music, movies, television, comic books, novels. I consume and enjoy (but I do not produce).