Creating Beauty in the World

Wow, have I had a whirlwind of a few months. 

Sitting with Dawn over hot chocolate the other day, I talked about how I feel like myself, finally, for the first time in months. She smiled and said, “That’s the fibro-fog. You were stuck in it.”

Isn’t it always when someone else says something, you suddenly realize you knew it all along?

I started July with two family members in the hospital. I battled with 100F+ temperatures to film and complete True to You 2. September saddled me with carpal tunnel + fibro so bad, I couldn’t use my hands for two weeks. At all. I only got full use of them back in October, and by then, I was so buried by months of being behind, I was digging myself out.

Here’s the thing about fibromyalgia -- it’s always there, in some way, every day. As I type this, I have orthopedic gloves on, a wrist brace on my right hand, and my wrists are on a nice, bead-filled wrist pad for my keyboard. I’ve all but given up on typing on my laptop, and have tried to cut down on IMs, if only so I can save my hands for my 2,000 words a night for NaNoWriMo.

But I’m doing it. I’ve finally dug through all the sludge and come out on top, ready to tackle the world, a little wiser. Here are a few things I’ve learned these past few months:

1. Better safe than sorry. When my hip started to hurt, riding my bike wasn’t the best idea. And I could have spared my wrists if I’d only been kind to them instead of pushing myself.

 

2. Journal all the time. I couldn’t write for a bit in there, but I could paint with my fingers and cut things out. When in the hospital, I had my journal on my lap to relieve stress (you can see my visitor’s badge from the ER on the cover of my current journal). There is SO MUCH you can do even if you can’t use your hands, or are tired, or are in pain. I am blessed to know so many strong ladies who do art every day with FMS and other chronic conditions.

3. Know it is okay to say you can’t handle things. This is a lesson I’m still trying to learn. Especially with trying to make a living online, and thus having to deliver content and actual items. I dropped the ball with journal orders and prints in the Etsy shop. I am so, so sorry. And don’t say that I don’t need to be, because I do. I need to be more up-front about what’s going on. But always know I am doing my best.

4. I’m thankful. If it weren’t for my FMS and surgery in college, I would have never picked up a pen and started to draw. Or a paintbrush to learn watercolors (simple, simple watercolors!).

I know there isn’t much art-talk in this post, but that’s okay. I’m writing to those of you reading this who can identity with these journal pages. To those who struggle. To those who overcome.

Tomorrow, I’ll broaden my gaze. But tonight, I want to give you all a hug and show you that you don’t have to let your circumstances or illness keep you from creating beauty in the world.

Getting Past the Blocks of Uncertainty

an in-progress journal page; she's gone through a few layers, but I'm still a bit uncertain as to where she's going!

Sometimes, we have no idea what we’re doing in our journals.

Ideas come to mind, and we rush to execute them, afraid that, if they’re left uncaught for too long, they will fade away, taken on the wind like a clearing mist. So we put them down, sit back, and wonder what the hell we were thinking. Why that color? Why is that image there? How is this going to work out?

There are a few things you can do when this happens:

1. Push through it.

This requires bravery and a silent critic. Just keep putting paint and paper and drawings down, collage a bit more, add another layer of paint, and work faster to keep yourself from thinking too much. I remember reading an interview with Teesha Moore where she said something like keep going until you hit some resistance, and push through it -- that’s where the best stuff comes from. Whenever a page seems to not be working, pushing through it and adding bits can help unlock magic you’d never have found if you simply let the page win.

2. Shift to another page.

Working on more than one page at once can help you keep the energy and art mojo flowing when the page you’re confused by throws a brick wall in your way. Switch to something else -- grab a collage bit from your stash, or a paint color you adore, and put it down on another journal page. Dina often has three journals going at once; when she’s in the flow, she’s working fast and switching between them so there’s no static moments while something is drying.

 

3. Take a break.

Sometimes, this is what you have to do. When you slam into that blockage, that moment of what is going on here? it may just be time for you to push your journal away, stand up, and move somewhere else. Go for a walk, have a conversation with someone near you, listen to music. Don’t, whatever you do, look online for inspiration. There are two reasons I warn you against this: first, because you may find something you love and feel you’ve no business even journaling anymore because oh, who am I to try when someone else can do something that amazing? and second, because the internet can really suck up your time, and before you know it, an hour has passed, the paint on your palette’s dried out, and it’s time to make dinner. Try walking away for maybe twenty minutes, then come back and try again.

 

You may want to give up. Shut your journal and ignore it for a few days. Wonder if you’re any good at all. Here’s what I have to say:

You are amazing, wonderful, and unique, and have every right to keep going, keep playing, keep creating. Being an artist isn’t about paintings in a gallery or being recognized for talent. It is a frame of mind, an outlook, and a willingness to run right up to the blocks and tear the thing down, brick by brick, because you want to know what’s on the other side.

I've also updated the Studio View gallery with several shots around my outdoor art space.

{waking in color}

I’m actually writing this before bed, though it is technically Monday. I just finished re-watching the unaired Sherlock pilot, again, though only because someone else in the apartment hadn’t seen it yet and that show is bloody brilliant. Ahem. I’ve adopted lots of British-isms in the past 2 weeks or so, which is wonderful. 

Is it really Monday? Where did my weekend go? 

I did publish that video, which was 3 hours or so of editing and learning iMovie ’09 after Final Cut Pro decided it no longer wanted to work on my computer. Last week was filled with technology woes -- first, my upgrades to a new OS didn’t work out so well (my Mac is a hackentosh, a two-year-old Dell Inspiron desktop that is made of magic), then, when those were settled, my new camera’s software wouldn’t load unless things were upgraded, and the upgrades crashed the system and...

*deep breath*

I finally was able to film near sundown on Wednesday, tried to edit Thursday, was back on Friday, and finished with a marathon session on Saturday. There was a point in there when I asked myself why I was going through all the trouble, and then, when I was giggling and getting really into editing, I realized why: I love making vids. I love putting together the layers, figuring out the shots and the angles and what goes where. I love writing it all out before I start so I have a roadmap of some kind. 

And I feel like, for the past three or four years of putzing around on YouTube, that I’ve been asleep. That this deep love -- this love I have a bachelor’s degree in -- was always waiting, but I never took YouTube seriously enough to put the effort into it. And that was my mistake. Even though I wasn’t make money off things (I now make around $5 a month from a few ad-share videos), I should have seen that that didn’t matter. 

I went that way with my art. I created and journaled and blogged even through it wasn’t making me a penny. I just had fun. And I think these days we get too caught up in numbers or stats that we may lose sight of this. 

 

Becca asked me last week for advice on getting more subscribers for her blog. She asked how I got popular. I don’t consider myself very popular, and think my Facebook page gets more traffic than this blog, so I wasn’t able to really answer her question because I’ve never thought about it. 

This was my mission statement when I began blogging in 2006: 

To create the type of blog I’d love to visit. 

There weren’t very many art journaling blogs out there, nor were there many books, so I decided to fill this gap I found with my own adventures. I never went around and advertised, didn’t comment too much on other blogs (I’m terrible at that, by the way; I may read yours regularly and never say anything!), and had little idea what I was doing. But I knew what I wanted to read about online, what images and inspiration I wanted to see, so that’s what I produced. I posted to my blog and on Flickr and that was it. 

In fact, I made sure I didn’t get too wrapped up in numbers. I didn’t want to care; caring too much meant I could be disappointed if a post didn’t get any comments or very many views. I published nearly every journal page I created back in those days, posting so often, it was insane. 

But I did get caught up. And when people didn’t like pages, I’d get sad. And when I was making pages, I wouldn’t even be ten minutes into it when I started thinking about posting it online and what people would think. Those thoughts began influencing my work, and wow did I get blocked. 

So I decided to cool it on posting journal pages for awhile -- a practice that continues, I must admit; I post about 30-50% of my pages these days, and haven’t scanned one for months. I’ve found more satisfaction in flash posts on my Facebook page and writing my newsletter than in anything else. And now that I’m back to making the types of videos I enjoy, I’m just tickled pink all the time. 

I set out this weekend to paint. To turn off the computer and just be. And I didn’t log on much -- I checked my email three times and Facebook about the same. Just quick little jaunts. Since I lost my cell phone two weeks ago, I don’t have that constant tether to the online world anymore (but am freaked out when driving around without any way to contact people should something *cough* Irunoutofgasonthefreeway *cough* happen). It was great. I doodled. A lot. Worked on the same journal page all day, saw a movie, bought a book, and oh, yeah -- found out I might have strep. For now, it’s a very sore throat, achy ear, going from hot to cold, and a persistent headache that has me walking through water. 

 

Ugh. Visiting the little clinic in Walgreens tomorrow just in case, though I trust the independent diagnoses of my parents, as they are experienced in such things. How this happened, I don’t know! (Note: if I owe you something other than a package to put in the post, please be patient; I shall email you later) Anyway, no insurance = little clinic in a drug store on a mother’s dime. How far I’ve come. 

Anyway, I think what’s happened is I was trying to be like those other blogs, with their deep, moving posts that everyone links to and loves, and you know what? I’m not like that. I like having conversations. I like living a digital life. I like making videos and doing art and teaching classes (and yay news about True to You 2; the lovely Tam is working with me on that, the angel she is...). I like making journals (and am getting someone to pull out the binding machine so I can stock those loved spirals in my etsy shop). I like helping others discover their potential (if I could be an art journaling coach with real clients, I’d be a happy girl). 

There’s my advice, Becca. Be yourself. Don’t try to get readers -- just be. They’ll come. Give them time to find you. Go out on a ledge and submit something to a magazine. And be an awesome friend so your friend (ie: me) can link to your blog because I just adore you and your awesome creative spirit. Have I mentioned her home is covered in art by family and friends? It’s like walking into color that you never want to leave. 

Bed for me, now. I’ll post this in the morning. 

xoxo, 

samie kira

{two amazing lessons on one adventurous night}

The cover for my new (next) journal is drying, and the sun’s casting a warm glow over my little area, so I thought I’d pause from picking the PVA from my fingers and finally sit down to write this post.

It’s a week late, as in the events in it happened a week ago, about 30 minutes from now, but I haven’t really been in the mood to write it until now. Forgive me if I ramble, or get deep; I’m writing this as I think, more like telling a story to a friend rather than writing a concise blog post.

Then again, I treat this blog as an open letter to a friend, or to myself, beginning with art six years ago.

There’s this thing in Phoenix called First Fridays. I heard about it pretty soon after I moved here in October, while searching for artful gatherings near me. It’s described as America’s largest self-guided art walk, with galleries and shops opening their doors to a wandering public looking for a good time and great art. There are vendors at several points along the way, and a free trolley helps you get around.

Last Thursday, I was watching Up. And you know the beginning, the part that makes you cry? It also made me realize that the way I was going, I’d have dreams painted on all my walls and never have done one of them. So I decided there and then that I was going to do First Friday. I’m usually hesitant about such things, not because I don’t like crowds or adventures, but rather know I’ll pay for a long walk and physical activity the day, or days, later. A nice little Fibromyalgia parting gift.

But I was going to do it. I had a back-up Vicodin in my pocket, and packed my purse with my journal, a handful of art prints, my wallet, and digital camera. I also packed my younger brother, K, in the car, and we drove to the Phoenix Art Museum to park and catch the trolley. I don’t really know the area, so I figured this would be the best way to go.

So we grabbed a map and stood in the crowd waiting for the East trolley. And that thing was packed as tightly as a Japanese train during rush hour (I presume; I’ve only ridden the Japanese train system during their 9pm rush hour, so the earlier ones could be lighter. Then again, I doubt that very much!). We were the first two to have to stand, and so we rode on down to Roosevelt holding onto the gold bars running above the seats that were smudged with fingerprints.
 

We didn’t really know where to get off, so I suggested the second Roosevelt stop. Why? Because it looked close to stuff. So we waited and soon were released from the trolley in a gush of human traffic, running into those collected on the corner. We were bombarded by hand-outs and fliers from all sorts of people, our hands quickly stuffed.

But it wasn’t until we began wandering down 5th Street that we really realized where we were.

A magical, awesome land.
 

I don’t really know how to describe it other than to show you photographs K took, as he lifted the camera from me sometime on the trolley (note: I wish I had the names of the artists pictured here, but since I wasn't paying attention, I didn't grab cards from all of them). Which was fine, as I was jumping after everything. There are little coffee shops (one sold coffee and crapes!) and tiny galleries where the owners sleep in the back rooms. Giant covered front lawns cluttered with mismatched picnic tables. Back lots with more art to see or bands to hear.
 

People were selling paintings and prints, jewelry and sculptures made from found objects. One woman had several hula-hoops with ribbon wrapped around them. The night was warm and all around us, conversations blended into that rich background that makes you feel more alive just through knowing there are others around you. You could close your eyes or look up at the stars and just feel the creative energy saturating your clothes, your very bones.

I quickly reconized the need to carry a water bottle, and bought one at the coffee and crepes place. K declined. And then, suddenly, we came upon a table covered in cupcakes, water bottles, and --

“Or any of this stuff!” the girl said. “We don’t take money, only trades.”

“And no cell phones,” the second one added.

K laughed. “People have offered you their cell phones?”

“Yep!”

“What’s all that?” I asked. The first girl had a flashlight pointed at a pile of seemingly unconnected junk, random bits you’d find at the bottom of your purse.

“Things people have traded us.”

“Well,” I said, “Those cupcakes look delicious.” I quickly balanced my purse on the table and began digging through all the papers and fliers we’d already collected out of wanting to avoid confrontation, looking for the pile of prints I’d shoved in ‘just in case.’ I pulled out You Can Fly and handed it to the second girl. “Here. K, do you want something?”

“That bottle of water,” he replied.

“This is so cool!” the second girl said, once her friend shined the flashlight on the print. I smiled, K opened the bottle of water, and we continued on.

“I can’t believe my art just bought you that bottle of water,” I told K.

“I know. It’s awesome.”

And he drank half the damn bottle right there.

--

We stepped up onto the high patio of a print shop, where K looked through screenprinted t-shirts. I eyed the decorated flasks in the corner. Outside, on the patio, a DJ changed songs, the beat vibrating through the brick shop.

“These are cool,” he said.

“They’re screenprinted.”

We walked back out into the heat of April in the desert. As we hopped down, K said, “You should do that, Sam.”

“Right. With my little Yudu.”

“It would be really cool.”

I laughed into the night air.

We walked back towards the corner where a company was handing out free cans of something called Sun Drop. I took the offered drink, and so did K. As we neared the corner and the amber light of a streetlight, he held his out.

“I got diet.”

“Good,” I smiled.

We switched drinks and popped open the tabs. It wasn’t half-bad.

--

We entered a white building with chipping paint, deep red showing through the cracks. A fence inside guided us around to a gallery area, where paintings and pieces from all sorts of mediums stood freely or hung on the walls. Right next to the entrance sat a grey box with

THIS WAY TOWARD ENEMY

stenciled on it. It was painted on all visible surfaces.

K laughed at the mirror and camera installation that showed your image over the word SUSPECT.

We went up a staircase to nowhere, descended, and headed back out.

--

Across the way, an open field boasted tented stalls of all sorts of things. K pulled out the camera while I explored one covered in pink. Another had hand-made jewelry that took my breath away and made me regret not pulling any cash out of an ATM before driving down. A display of brass stencils caught my eye, and as I went through them, I remarked,

“Wow. I had about 500 of these in Illinois.”

The owner sighed. “You should have put them on eBay!”

“They might still be in the garage,” I replied.

I grabbed a card after running my fingers over darling earrings, the pang of not being able to bring them home with me a pain that would remind me for next month.

--

We crossed the street to where a band was playing in front of a record shop.

As I walked through the latticed walls covered in paintings, I couldn’t help but feel small. Not in stature, but talent. And here’s where the first amazing thing of the night happened.

Instead of feeling hopeless and depressed, I felt empowered.

Why? Because seeing the work there, being in front of the paintings and saying hello to the tattooed artists who probably have jobs during the day and do this on the side, or struggle by on sales alone, showed me what is possible. I remember reading an interview with Pam Carriker, and the intro said, “She has 20 years experience in art.”

20 years? How can I possible think my art now can be compared to anything like that after only 6? Yes, some people succeed overnight. Others need practice and passion. I was wailing to Lia one night a year ago and she told me, “You know, it took Sabrina [Ward Harrison] 10 years to make any money off her books.”

And walking around, seeing those pieces, I realized I’m only in my artistic infancy. I’m just starting, drawing stick figures with my fingers in kindergarten. I have so much yet to discover and uncover in myself. There’s so many things I need to go through in order to get the rich stuff out. And I’m doing the best anyone wanting to be an artist can -- I am making art every day. A sketch here, watercolors there. Maybe some writing in my Harajuku Lovers composition book Lia sent me to fill with new Arizona dreams. Other days, I’m experimenting with the laugh and disregard of rules of a mad scientist.

Maybe it won’t happen today or tomorrow, but it will as long as I keep showing up. I love the paintings I do now. I love the paintings I did last year. And I can see, when looking between them, how much I’ve grown and learned. There’s a adage in the TV business that goes like this -- in order to get a writing gig in TV, you have to submit a spec script (a script of an episode of an established show in the genre you want to write for). And everyone tells you you don’t submit your first or second or even your fifth. You submit that sixth one, because every one before that was just for practice.

I’m pretty sure it’s the same for art.

--

Our finale for the night was the Firehouse, where artists from all over sell their artwork, jewelery, clothes, and other odds and ends. I walked around and felt like I had to do something. Like this was one of those moments I could either grab for or paint on my walls.

“How does one get to sell stuff here?” I asked.

I got a card. And an enthusiastic, “We’re always looking for new artists!” before we left.

And we were just about to turn and walk to the trolley stop when I noticed there was something pointing to the back lot. Hugging the side of the building was a path lined with roses and bushes growing over a lattice fence. We came out into an area with a stage and chairs and couches set out for the audience. Not knowing what we walked into, K and I took a seat.

Now, you know that feeling I had earlier? That push to go outside my comfort zone and do something? Collect stories instead of pictures on the walls?

I just knew it was going to get me into trouble, because not five minutes later, I was randomly chosen to go up on stage. This wasn’t a volunteer thing -- this was a, “We’re going to pick you and you’re going to do this, damnit!” kind of deal. And I didn’t know what we were going to be doing until I climbed up onto the stage -- and I can still feel the embarrassment tingling across my skin as I write this -- and found out...

Oh, you thought I was going to tell you, didn’t you.

I will reveal this: the second amazing thing that happened that night. A piece of advice for all you afraid to do things you feel in your heart in fear of being embarrassed or laughed at. For those moments when you feel like a moron and want to shrink and hide.

I’m pretty sure -- no, positive -- it is nothing bigger than participating in an orgasmic moaning competition on stage in front of 50 strangers and your little brother recording the whole damn thing on the digital camera he lifted from you an hour ago.

So next time you’re frightened to do something in order to save face or avoid embarrassment, think to yourself, “Is this more scary that what Kira had to do?”

Yeah. Didn’t think so.

And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I didn’t come in first, but wasn’t last, either, which is a plus. And the rest of the night, I was laughing and smiling because nothing could touch me after that.

--

My brother opted to keep my door prize. And the camera. He said, “I’m so showing this to mom when we get back.”

“Uhh...just as long as it doesn’t end up on YouTube.”

He gave me a wicked smile as we reached the corner where the trolley would be picking us up.

It was across from a Light Rail station.

“Next time, we’re taking that down here,” I said with a tight smile, still wondering how I could get the camera back. “Cause we could have stayed so much later.”

--

K gave me the camera after I revealed, as we sat on the trolley back to the art museum, that I had the dongle that plugged into the computer at the bottom of my purse.

He asked for it back two hours later.

--

The next day, I walked into the bookstore and gave my number to the guy there I’d been crushing on for a few weeks. After the night before, what was a little flirting?

(And if you’re reading this, why haven’t you called? And if you did, why no voice mail?)

Perhaps that’s the final lesson. That you can have all the practice in the world, get rid of the embarrassment from your life, but in the end, you’ve gotta own it. All of it.

So stop painting pictures on your walls and get out into the world.

It’s waiting.

{when our hearts are full, indeed!}

"when our hearts are full"

12"x10" mixed-media on canvas

My latest painting, three weeks in the making. I've already bought more canvases to keep going. This was a hard one to share, as I always want to live up to the compliments I've been given on past work. O.o

I just adore her. I gave her pink hair, which seems to be a trend of some kind with my work as of late.

What I can't believe is that I doodled this one while watching TV the other night! Who would have thought I'd be able to play around with a pencil in my journal and draw things that actually please me?

Not me!

So keep working, darlings! Six years ago, I was a college student majoring in TV production. And now, I'm living the artful life! It just takes determination, love, joy, and a spirit of adventure. You can do it! Promise!

And now, I'm going to take my own advice and get off the computer and get creating!

{show them what you're worth}

At times, I forget how solitary art-creating can be.

Push aside interacting online or showing your work to others, or even being published --all you create comes from you, a stillness within, and comes out in your own secret alphabet on paper or canvas or fabric. You are the only one who sees all you’ve created, can see the struggle hidden beneath the layers of a painting or the pain in the swirled doodles running off the edge of a journal page. No one else pages through your journals the way you do, reading the words seen and unseen.

Simply put, the outside world has no idea what you go through to create.

A few days ago, I was feeling the pressure of getting a few projects finished. I’ve improved a bit when it comes to deadlines, finishing bits up at least a day or two before they’re due, but this is the result of putting incredible pressure on myself to finish, and finish early so you’re sending in quality -- not rushed -- work. I’d been sick for about a week, starting off with a horrible flare-up of my fibromyalgia (to the point I couldn’t get out of my bed without crying from the pain) and ending with a stomach bug that kept me up for 36 hours straight. All in all, I could only think of all the things I should be doing, while trying to remind myself to forget that incorrigible word.

Recovery takes longer when you have fibromyalgia. What takes you a day takes me a few, and on that day at the beginning of the week, I was really feeling everything fall on my shoulders.

And so, when talking to my mother, I said:

“I don’t understand why you don’t see what I’m doing as work.”

A bit of back-story: I work my ass off. There’s a lot more to living as an artist full-time than just making paintings and having no set work schedule. There’s administrative things. Posts and social media to keep up on. Images to snap and crop and fix up. Clients to speak to. Money and accounts to balance. Emails to answer (you’ll be happy to know I’ve instituted an ‘answer when you read it’ policy when it comes to comments and notes). Packages to mail.

And this all happens in a small area at the back of my apartment, away from others. Remember how I said art-making is solitary?

She responded with something that really got me thinking:

“That’s because we never see any of the money.”

I know we don’t do this for the money, that art is a way for us to express ourselves, deal with the difficulties of our lives, even works as a meditative state for many of us. But that’s inside our world. Outside, the world still measures worth by how profitable it is, even if that statements a bit backwards and capitalist.

But her statement got me thinking about a few things. First, the solitary nature of art-creating. How many of you share all you create with your families? Do they understand when you’ve been re-tweeted or linked to by someone well-known, or that you’ve won a workshop or print from someone they’ve never heard of? How many of us have taken the time to really explain what our world consists of -- and what is valuable to us, as artists?

We should invite our families into our studios and show them what we’re doing. Explain to them how important this is to you -- let them see the joy it brings. Bring them into the fold when it comes to swaps or projects you’re working on, and try to impart the significance of what you’re doing. Let them share the victories and comfort you when things don’t go so well.

For example, whenever I’m working on a painting or piece for a project, I show it to my family and close friends and ask for their honest opinions of what I’m creating. It doesn’t matter that, maybe, my style isn’t their favorite kind of art, or if they even like art. What matters is they get to see something as I work on it, the steps in-between, and offer constructive criticism that might actually help me improve my art.

Most of my funds come through Paypal, and if you’re not reading my emails, you won’t see any activity. When I do get paid for articles or interviews, I jump up and down and show it off -- let my family and friends see the little steps of success I’ve made, and that helps them to appreciate what I work on. But what about the other stuff? Maybe I should take them out to dinner, or offer to pay for movie tickets once and awhile. I don’t make a huge amount of money with what I do, but I think it is important to show others my world in terms they can understand.

The second part was actually a realization prompted by a combination of my mother’s comment and Dawn Sokol’s treasured friendship. It is the value of your work.

I love my (mostly) weekly coffee dates with Dawn. We talk about what we’re working on, what we’ve seen, share our art and lives. She gets things in a way my family doesn’t (which is why what I’ve written above is so important).

She also is a great voice of reason and reality.

She has said, “Kira, I think you’re undervaluing yourself.”

How many of us do this? How many of us look at the work we’re creating and compare it to others’ and figure it isn’t worth much? I think there’s a difference between being humble and having a low self-esteem, and it’s so hard to find that balance in the art world.

When I priced my paintings for the Charity Sale to help Japan (which is still running, if you’re looking for a way to donate to the Red Cross & get a painting to boot!), I actually had to message my friend Nolwenn and said, “Can you go look at the prices I’ve picked and make sure I’m not undervaluing myself?”

Sometimes we need others to show us how much we’re worth. I may think listing a painting for $105 is silly, but I sold that painting within 24 hours of putting up the charity sale. We need others to be there to knock us on the head when we’re not at our best, to be an outside source looking at our creations. All I can see are flaws. All others can see is perfection.

By the way, when I told my mother I sold that painting, she went, “You could have gotten $105 for that?”

I think that was a big message to her as to how far I’ve come.

So show your family and friends what you’re really worth. Take the time to share your world and art and thoughts. Let your kids create alongside you. Turn off the TV for a half-hour to babble on about your latest blog post or amazing email.

By sharing your world, it’ll grow and blossom in ways you never imagined.

{a letter to a darling}

I was thinking last night about the Mystery Mentor project and what my last message would be to my mentee. Through a twist of fate, my mentor, an angel mentor who came into the game halfway through January, lives in the next town over, and has even invited me to one of her workshops this week!

But what to say to the mentee? What would see her with Believing Eyes and help her through the tough times?

And then realized I want to write this letter to all of you — to the Me of two years ago, to the girls I get emails from, to those just starting. To old hats and youngsters alike.

To the younger sister I’ll never have by blood, but may by spirit.

Dear Darling,

It is going to happen.

I know it is hard. I know, right now, that your dreams still feel so far away, stars in distant galaxies, swirling out of reach. You’re bound to the Earth beneath your feet and watch, dazed, as others achieve what you want so badly, your heart aches in your chest.

And because they are closer to your star, you are going to compare yourself to them. This is inevitable, and will happen your entire life. Never mind that they’ve been working on things for years, or have more experience, or are older — in your mind, nothing will matter but the fact that they are doing what you wish you were.

You’ll work on your art and compare it to others, wondering why they get more comments or views or tweets than you. You’ll post to your blog and watch your inbox and wonder what you did “wrong.” Where are they? Why hasn’t the world noticed you?

When do you get your wings?

They say hindsight is 20/20, but that’s only if you turn around and look behind you. Sometimes, we become so focused on the distant star, we don’t notice we’ve begun to fly from the ground and float into the blackness. And, oh, darling, it is dark! As you begin to navigate far from your comfort zone, you won’t know where to turn. You’ll be scared, frightened of taking a wrong turn, one that takes you farther from your dream.

But there is no such thing as a wrong turn. What we believe is best for us may not be what is truly the best for us. There is a divine order to things, a power greater than you and me and every being on this planet, and She will not lead you astray.

When the fear is building in you — your heart pumping faster, palms slick with sweat, stomach tied in impossible knots — be still. Remember who you are and where you came from, the experiences in your life that shaped you, the talents only you possess. Listen to the wind or a song on a random playlist or the random doodles in your sketchbook.

Life is scary. But you have a fire burning in you, a passion that cannot be put out by anyone but yourself. You will rise and fall and skin your knees, and that is The Moment that decides everything — will you get up? Or will the count hit 10 and the lights go out but for that tiny, far-off spec of a dream?

Take it from me — it will happen. And when it does, you’ll look back and wonder how you ever thought something else was your destiny in life. Your star will change as you do, will shine brighter as you grow, will warm you on the coldest, saddest days.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I knew in my heart I’d grow up to write amazing short stories and novels. I wrote — and continue to write — in my spare time, obsessively typing while watching prime-time TV (learning how to type faster and spell as I did so!). I was so focused on that, I never considered art. Never thought I’d draw or paint or doodle. I was going to write. And my eyes were so glued to that star, it was only a few years later, when I was writing articles for magazines, that I realized I’d made it — only my star had changed for the better.

Yes, some people will seemingly come out of nowhere and gain popularity, and others will hold it for years to come, but that is their path, not yours. Have Faith, darling, because it’s going to be dark for a long time.

But that only means when you reach that first star — and see all the others lined up behind it, obscured from view by your myopic mind — the blazing joy will only be that much brighter.

Now get out that paintbrush and go to work.

With all my love,

Samantha Kira

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The image above is of my painting Everygirl, who is all of us, any color or race or age -- we are all creative beings. You can grab an 8"x8" print of her at my Etsy shop.

{between two sides (#reverb10 - 1)}

I'm participating in #Reverb10 as a way to reflect and figure out where to go next. This is for yesterday's prompt; I'll post for today's tonight!

At the beginning of this year, I used Christine Kane’s one word workbook to discover what word would best encapsulate what I hoped to achieve in 2010. I chose:

I decided to mark 2010 as the “beginning” of my professional career in art and writing, to officially make the transition from hobbiest/crafter to professional artist. I remember going to Dick Blick in downtown Chicago with Dawn and, when I renewed my discount membership, answering the following question:

“Are you a hobbiest or professional?”

“Professional.”

I may have said it off-hand while chatting with Dawn, but I felt so much power coming from that simple word. Professional. I felt I had made such a giant leap by not only saying it to myself, but declaring it to the world.

What does it mean, exactly? That I am working towards something larger than myself. I am creating more and more, making a commitment to myself and my dreams in big, bold letters.

It was in January that I lost my job, and aside from a few tough months during my move across the country, I have been able to make ends meet with the income generated through Etsy sales, online workshops, and the generosity of my blog readers. I’ve tried to stop being such a horrible procrastinator, to work regular hours (as in, I sit down at 10am and work until 4), to take weekends off, and to invest in myself.

But looking back on this year, I think my word really was this:

Faith in the universe to provide for me as long as I was being true to my heart (but not provide if I wasn’t doing something). Faith in myself and my art and my voice in being one that people are interested to see and hear. Faith in my family to get through a year and a half of difficulty. Faith in myself to drive across the US to a new home. Faith that I’d end up where I was supposed to be. Faith in friends.

It is a hard thing to cultivate. I feel, though, that in the last month and a half, meeting up with three wonderfully artistic and different women, that I may just be getting there. Knowing I need support and a good ass-kicking every once and awhile is one thing - being truthful and humble enough to ask others to help you out is another. I thought I’d be seen as weak or unmotivated or silly and childish (I’m younger than everyone!), but had to have faith in myself as a worthy creative soul and in my friends as true friends to open up and be myself.

This is still an area I need to work on, and hope to continue doing so in the coming year. I gave myself a year to try this professional artist gig, and I may, just may, give myself a lifetime.

As for next year, I pondered for awhile. What did I want to achieve in 2011? How did I want to achieve it?

I use my words for comfort. When I felt jealous over the success of others, I reminded myself I was just beginning. When things turned difficult, I remembered faith. What, if anything, can comfort me now that I’ve felt the small flickering fire of empowerment?

I considered Perseverance, a reminder that hard work will bring me closer to my goals, but that work doesn’t need to be hard or despised. Or Hope, that bird singing in the soul that can hug when I feel alone? How about Poetic, a reminder to nurture the side of me that loves colorful (but not purple!) prose?

And then a concept came to mind that I’ve been learning without even trying:

There are many definitions of this concept, rooted in Taoism (also written as Daoism; try combining the sounds of T and D to get the proper Chinese pronunciation). I learned this my sophomore year of college in my Asian Philosophy class but never could really grasp it. Here’s a definition I personally like:

"No action," "no strain"; doing only what comes spontaneously and naturally; effortlessness.

I learned recently how to create art without putting too much strain on my body; before, I’d spend hours in the studio, struggling to create in the traditional way, only to be hurting come morning. And when creating workshops last year, I’d film and edit in a two-day period, then slip into a flare-up.

So this year, I am practicing Wu Wei. Which is to say I’m not practicing, because it’s kinda weird to explain. Let me try this example:

When I was working and in a lot of pain, I used to go to many doctors and take a lot of pills in order to force myself to feel and get better. Except I didn’t, or didn’t to the level I wanted.

Later, I started working and stopped taking so many pills. And through working, through not trying, my health improved.

Does this make sense?

I “hibernated” artistically (something I’ll be discussing in my next newsletter) and tapped into a wealth of creativity and energy I didn’t know was there. By creating without a clear destination, I discovered pieces of myself I can teach...a much easier process than focusing on finding something to form a class around.

So let’s see how this goes.