I Thought It Was Because I Was An Artist

and the journey of loving myself

I notice the small details of those I care about.

I would trace my fingertip along the edges of their lip so I could recreate the feel of the curve on their smile, the way it holds a higher wit to the right and a softness to the left. I would notice the freckles that glowed with laughter and the lines that danced with their heartbeat.

They say to look for the small moments that lift you. I would look for the finer details that would bring out someone’s light.

And I thought it was because I was an artist. Because I trained my eye to notice the details that go unseen. I thought it was because I was an artist that I would pause, and sit with all that someone could be in front of me. Because I would wait for the true beauty to show itself to me.

I thought it was because I was an artist. But it was because I wish that’s how someone may see me.

Self portrait of an insecure artist

…

I have a preoccupation with my skin. Oof, that’s tough to admit.

As a girl, I would get told I had chicken skin, and during winter it would creep up to my jaw. Keratosis pilaris (kp) is the name, a condition so common dermatologists refer to it as a skin type. But, the commonality of something doesn’t really occur to a girl getting compared to a chicken.

When I look in the mirror, I see blemishes and marks that I can only try to rid myself of. I look upon myself with the eye of magnifying glass and the mind of a critic. But when I look at those I love, I hold their vision with a tenderness I think I wish for myself.

I see their light while I inspect my pain.

I pick and press and inspect, waiting for the day that my true self breaks through the dermis; an image of a sad hag comes to mind.

Some days, it just feels like I don’t fit. Like I don’t belong inside this skin sack.

It started when I was in 7th grade. I was told I had man arms and chicken skin. The perfect combination to preoccupy a restless young mind. I would sit there picking at the blemishes on my arm, hoping that I could remove whatever was causing my roughness while only making them swollen and red.

The summer was my reprieve. The sun seemed to burn the kp so I would stay outside and try to push down my insecurities. They would soon creep back during the winter where I would cover myself and try not to pick too much.

After a series of high stress experiences, I slowly moved up from my arms to my face with the same vitriol I had when I first discovered what made me less than.

Did I not think I was beautiful? Did I hate myself? Was I just not enough?

I was so ashamed of how critical I would be of myself while so in awe of others. All I wanted to do was draw other people; all I saw was everything that made them beautiful. Yet, I could not offer myself the same.

Years of therapy and self-reflection led me to realize it was a habit I formed when I did not trust myself. Whenever I became indecisive, it triggered me into “finding the flaw.” Finding the thing that made me so unsure of myself.

Why couldn’t I just be comfortable with myself?

…

And I could feel the indecisiveness brewing. It felt like a burning sensation prickling up my body until I would start asking more people for opinions on decisions that only I could make. Beginning with outfit choices, and then unraveling to major life decisions. The more people I would ask, the closer I came to grabbing at my skin.

Get it out.

Maybe it’s not even about being beautiful. Maybe it’s just about control.

When I feel out of control, at least I have control over the marks on my body.

Could be why tattoos are so reassuring to me. When I get a tattoo, my nervous system relaxes and breathes for a moment, saying “hey look at this art,” and I let go of my blemishes.

…

That’s where Romantic Hoe Season (Titty Summer) came in. It really began out of my desire to look at myself the way I look at others. With an eye focused on how I may be art rather than how I may be fixed.

It started with a photo. What if I took pictures of myself like how I took pictures of others? I bought myself white roses, found a cute outfit, and set up a tripod. It was so awkward, but also felt really natural…?

The photo happened because…and I hate to admit this…I used to want to model. A part of me wanted to befriend photographers over the years so that they would photograph me because they saw the beauty I couldn’t find.

A dream.

And if I’m really honest here, a part of me started photography because I was hoping I could do an “I scratch your back, you scratch mine,” situation one day.

It was such a silly wish that would leave me resenting myself and diving deeper into the “what is wrong with me” spiral.

I was waiting to be chosen. I did the same with flowers, with dates to the movies, to the beach, ceramics classes, etc etc etc. I was consistently waiting for someone else to give me the green light on so many experiences and feelings of love.

The day I took the photo, I didn’t pick. I didn’t worry about my skin (as much) and I didn’t fixate on what I needed to change.

THE photo

So the photo turned into 30 days. What would happen if I focused on loving myself as fiercely as I had hoped someone else would?

What really solidified the month for me was finding a morning ritual that set me into the mindset of devotion to myself. I would start my day by meditating immediately, then *slowly* making myself coffee, and journaling. I would either go to the beach if I had time in the morning before work, or I would do yoga.

And as I cultivated the ritual, I slowly found how deeply my mornings affect the rest of my mental health. My mornings are make or break for my days. The journaling worked. The yoga worked.

It was actually annoying how easy it was to start loving myself.

My whole life I had taken a nihilistic approach to my self-image. And here I was, a month in, just fucking loving myself.

I felt like a fool for how sure I was that I could never find acceptance of myself.

I still pick my skin sometimes. But, there is so much less hatred behind the act.

This is my 4th year doing romantic hoe season and I am starting to believe that I can get to a place where no matter my external environment, I won’t pick my skin.

I believe I’ll get to a place where I can love all of body, partly why I renamed it Titty Summer this year. I felt afraid of my own cleavage for a long time. I would only wear clothing to hide my chest. It wasn’t like I had unsightly or large breasts. I just grew up with the idea that shows cleavage was bad I guess?

So this season has been about accepting, loving, and holding space for the parts of my body that I traditionally shy away from.

And because well, tits are fun.

This isn’t all just about body acceptance though. This is also about loving what makes me, me.

Exploring who I am when I am with myself. Exploring what I want to do, what I want to experience.

It’s also about this idea of “enough”-ness.

…

When is enough?

Most of my worries and adequacy center around my skill.

If I zoom out on all of the projects I want to complete, all the things I want to achieve, I start to think of all the skills I need to refine, and concepts I must learn before I can get to those goals.

I need to learn typography, get better at figure drawing, I need to explore oil painting, take more photography classes, graphic design courses, even start tattooing.

It’s exhausting diving into how much I need to learn to feel like I’m ready.

But.

“Enough” does not exist.

It’s not real.

What even decides what is “enough”?

It’s up to us to choose. We can give that authority to something, someone outside of ourselves…or we can choose the authority for ourselves.

In one of my monthly musings, I question the validity of the “greats.” How the greats we know were all chosen by (predominantly white) men in the industries.

Women have a hard time getting into the art industry because of concerns for “longevity,” meaning curators don’t want to take on women out of fear they will have children, or some other sexist reason.

Does that mean their art is not “enough,” just because men gate-keep the industry?

Or…is it possible that the rules for what is or is not enough is completely subjective and arbitrary?

We make judgements for enough-ness constantly throughout our day. We are judging creatures.

Yet, somewhere along the way we decided that someone’s judgement outweighs another.

Romantic Hoe season is an invitation to give yourself the same weight (or more) for these judgements that you would someone else.

For 30 days, what would it look like if you gave yourself the ultimate authority in deciding what was enough for you?

What does “enough” mean to you? How does it look? How would you shift your experience, trusting that you were not missing something? That there was no mountain to climb before you were ready?

My enough-ness stems from my mornings. I feel complete when I find what fills me as the sun rises. I’ve been doing yoga at 5 a.m., drinking celery juice, drawing with my coffee, journaling. I’ve been late to work more times than I would ever admit…and it’s completely worth it.

I met someone recently who told me my energy feels so full. That I feel whole.

Having written all throughout my journey, it’s been almost shocking to see how much has shifted in how I show up. It’s been even better meeting people who get to receive me as I am now.

I feel warm to others, because I am now warm to myself. I feel whole to others, because I am whole in myself. I allow the sadness and disappointment and shame to flow into me, and choose the energy of the love I hold for everyone else. It’s constantly a conscious effort for me to get to this place, but it is necessary for where I want to be.

And I wish this same spell of enough-ness for you.

Soul Untamed

The Sunlight floods into me,
My flawed flesh reveals the truth,
As her rays pierce sins I buried.
A kiss of wind caresses me to soothe
The indents along my body as though
These ripples are the waves in the ocean.
Heart skips a beat, wind urges me to let go,
Of my shame and step into a new devotion.
Open up to a soul shining of who I became,
The Sun watches on, yearning for the same