Four days into my fiber art blog and there is nary a shred of art to be found. I made that observation when I sat to post tonight (in keeping with NaBloPoMo). And that observation led me to a realization about myself.
I am first and foremost a writer. As much as I love visuals, words are my preferred method of self-expression. When I sit to journal, words pour out freely while I have to remind myself to sketch and draw. When I read blogs that also have photos, I read the words first and then remind myself to study the photos. When I chose my words for the journal challenge yesterday, my first instinct was to write down my reactions rather than sketch out my ideas.
Words have been my friends for years. I was an insatiable reader as a child. My poor mother trolled garage sales and thrift stores to keep me in books. (Even as I child I hated the library. Returning books that had entered my life seemed like a betrayal.) I liked to draw and color, but I loved to read and write.
It's harder for me to express myself through art than words. My visual vocabulary is vastly smaller than my verbal. I have no formal training as an artist, while I was a professional writer for years.
Words have always been my default. But surprisingly enough, art has become my passion.
I am drawn to art. To look, rather than hear. I feel art rather than think it. I create art from emotion rather than reason. I weep with sheer joy in front of paintings and sculptures. Art connects me with the universal while words too often tie me to the specific. Art silences my mind and touches me on a deeper level.
I may have a long-standing preference for the verbal, but I've found that the beauty of art lies in its ability to speak to my heart without any words at all.