A wild, beautiful thing

Creating art is a wild, beautiful thing

Some days, making art is completely infuriating. My body will move in a way that is both disjointed and awkward. On these days, my mind is completely present. It thinks too much, it overanalyses every movement my hands make when they connect to the canvas.

Other days, making art is the easiest thing in the world. When my hands connect to the thick, messy oil crayons sitting haphazardly on the old plastic chair they were left days before, they just begin to move.

They dance on their own accord across the brown thick card pinned against the wall that is my canvass. My hands are dirtied within seconds as I push large chucks of crayon onto the wall and mix the colours with my fingers. I use no palate, no canvas and no paintbrush. I do not need, nor want, to be restricted by such objects.

On days like this, where my hands dance across the wall in bold, strong strokes, with clarity and certainty, creating art is a physical act. My entire body moves, every muscle is active, aware and awake. Yet my mind is tranquil – it does not think, it does not hear.

I use art as a way to block my thoughts, to put my mind on hold for a moment without having to hurt it. Making art is my escape.


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