WHAT AN ARTIST DOES

I officially became an artist when I was 5, maybe 6.

I’d found my grandfather's camera and the Sentimentalist in me remembers it as a beautiful Leica M6. But the Realist in me knows it was only a Polaroid 100 (or 250 at best).

The camera didn't work. Or at least it didn't do anything when my 5-year-old fingers turned the dials and mashed the buttons.

The Sentimentalist remembers going through a cartridge of film that day; being taught how to use the camera while bonding with my grandfather as generations do.

The Realist remembers my grandfather showing me the first photo I took - splitting the negative to reveal a black square of underexposed nothing.

But with each subsequent photo, the images improved:

Black.  Blurry Black.  Blurry Grey.  Blurry Black-Grey. Grey.  Something blurry white.

Success!  Something blurry white. An artist is born!

The Sentimentalist in me wishes I’d kept that blurry, over-exposed image. The Realist does too.

Because, as I’ve learned, creativity is an evolutionary passion. Creative trial and error. Artistic walk-fall-run.

I never saw any of my grandfather's photos before he passed. And he never saw mine.

I like to think he’d be proud. But as a growing artist, I continue to try & fail, turn the dials and mash buttons.

Because that’s what an artist does.