Last week, I didn't share anything because I was spending time with my family. I know, cliché, but it is what it is. During that time, we ended up in a conversation about music, which led to a discussion about what makes someone an artist. I spent the weekend reflecting on what it means to me to be an artist.
An artist is, simply put, a person who practices any creative arts. This could mean painting, sculpting, filmmaking, music, or photography. Hell, we even call people like surgeons “artists with a scalpel,” or we call a barista an artist for the way they create beautiful patterns in our lattes. I guess what I'm getting at is that there are two types of people: those who embrace the arts and creative endeavors, viewing people broadly as artists, and those who feel the need to "protect" art, reserving the title of "artist" only for those they deem deserving. Honestly, I have no clue where that boundary lies—and I don't care.
Even if I don't see beauty in a particular work, a song, or a film, I recognize the artistry it takes to create. Beyond that, there's the strength it takes for an artist to share their work, knowing that someone might challenge its worth simply because it doesn't fit a fabricated definition someone feels they must enforce. Art allows us to bring order to our lives and to a humanity rife with disorder.
Sometimes, this means reconsidering the tools we use to create, leaving open the possibility that a new way isn't bad—that disruption can advance the art and, even better, advance the artist's message. Embracing new methods or technologies can feel uncomfortable, but that discomfort is often where growth happens, where we push the boundaries of what art can be and what it can say.
Oh, and here is a pineapple.
Bravo, my friend