Creativity is contagious 

I have already said it elsewhere: working surrounded by creative and artistic people is one of the most fascinating and scary thing that has ever happened to me.

 

The thing is, I think (and some people that know me well woul agree), I have an inclination for artistically stuff without actually been an artist. I trained as a classical dancer for years. I went to painting classes. I love crafting and working with my hands. I like writing and taking pictures. But it has always been an inclination, a hobby, nothing I ever took seriously, because I know I am not good enough at any of those as to be taken seriously.

 

But creativity is contagious. First of all, because if someone creative discovers you are creative in any way, he (or she) is going to persuade you to pursue your passion, in whatever small way you might do it. Secondly, because when you see people putting themselves out there through their passion and craft, you feel a bit jealous, in a good way: you want to be able and bold enough to do the same. It is not related to showing of what you are capable of, I see it more like sharing a part of you with the world.
For some time, I wrote poems. They were for me -someone who is a hard nut to crack when it comes to sharing personal stuff- a way of communicating and exploring my inner world, to get to know me better myself. The I stopped, for various reasons. I started crafting for a while, combining that with photography. The way I do it, that is less personal. Yes, the way you chose to portrait a moment or the way you compose the photo comes from personal and artistic decisions, but I didn’t communicate with that as much of me as I did with writing.

 

Then I started to surround myself by crazy and brilliant creative people, active in any creative domain you can imagine. And I guess I became bolder, or crazier, and I did something that I had been avoiding for the last ten years or so: I did a painting. An oil painting.

 

My painting material had been gathering dust for years. I have photos and postal cards I have taken because when seen them I thought «that would make a nice painting», but I never painted them. I kept finding excuses: «it takes time», «oil painting smell is going to disturb my roommates», «I have nowhere to hang them once they’re done», etc., etc. you get the picture (pun intended).

 

But during my holiday, it suddenly happened: one afternoon I decided I needed to paint one painting I had been neglecting for years (a photo I took of a friend in the North Sea three or fours years ago), and there I went. It was scary, I wasn’t sure I was going to remember the techniques. In fact, I might have improvised a bit. A lot, probably. There is no way to say it. It was a simple project, a good one to go back to the brushes and colors and so, and I’m happy with the result. I know I am not Velázquez, but I’m ok with it.

Now, I only need to guess what to do with the painting now. Most of the excuses were only excuses, but I really have no where to hang the painting.

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