On a Sunday night sitting in my dingey university house I can never stop my mind from wandering to imagine all the places I’d rather be. The main one obviously being home. I don’t get homesick at university and luckily I never really have, but I do occasionally get a sense of longing for my bed at home and all the comforts of being there. Having my pets around, always having food in the fridge, heating that actually works.
Then, as that awful Sunday feeling gets progressively worse I start to let my mind wander to even greater extents. What if I just got on a plane and got a round- the-world ticket? I think seeing constant photos on Instagram of beautiful, exotic places all around the world, especially knowing so many friends who are currently travelling, inevitably gives me a sense of envy.
I just try to remember that all of that is within my reach, and for now I just have to try and be satisfied with my dingey little house in Nottingham.
I was always an artist growing up. I was always an introverted child who preferred being infatuated by fantasy worlds I’ve created myself rather than participating in dull sphere we call reality.
I loved drawing and painting. From a young age I knew this was what I was most passionate about, that and reading. Growing up, I wanted to go to art school. I could never see myself not doing art, I couldn’t imagine not developing my talent, not expressing myself through art. I couldn’t imagine what else there is.
Then unfortunately at school I had one teacher who seemed to dislike me and my work from the beginning. He stood over my shoulder for years, condescending me, criticising every piece of work I produced. As a child I had my work published, I would draw in cafe’s and have people walk up to me and ask ‘did you really draw that?’. When I was a teenager my work progressed, I loved to draw people, I posted my work online, always received extremely positive feedback. But he ruined art for me, and after years of being told I wasn’t good enough because my taste just didn’t fit whatever construct of ‘good art’ he had in his own mind, I started to lose hope.
I’ve had friends go on to do art professionally, and looked upon them and their work both happy for them and what they’ve achieved, but disappointed in myself for not being able to do the same. People who used to look up to me and my work are now succeeding more in art than I ever have. More than anything I think I am just angry with myself for giving up. His opinion didn’t matter, his opinion didn’t define my worth. But as a very introverted and insecure teenager, his constant and intense criticism affected me so deeply that I started to resent art itself. Art became a reminder of my feelings of inadequacy and failure. Art became a symbol of something I could never hope to succeed in, a symbol of my crushed childhood dreams.
I just hope that some time in the future I can be inspired again. It’s so frustrating knowing that I have this talent and this passion, so much to express, but have grown too stubborn and too scared to indulge myself in it.
Let me know your thoughts if you have any. Still just trying to get my blog on here started!