The making of my graphic design career has was delayed in part by uncertainty, self-confidence and lack of faith. Yet, the creative well was something I had returned to time and time again during my k-12 education. Drawing and art seemed to keep me occupied and as I grew older provided differentiation between myself and my high school peers.
And when it came time to risk it all; my job, finances and future. I again returned to that well I had grown to rely on for comfort and imagination. The artist in me wanted to breath. The logical college student in me pondered a direction. In the end, I used one to get the other. The designer won out over the artist the moment that I decided to complete my undergrad education. It seemed sensible at the time that as a creative, I had a better chance at making a living as a commercial artist or graphic designer than trying to make it as a fine artist. And when I passed my fellow art majors in the hallway, them with their brushes and canvases and me with my typography books and Adobe for dummies, I would glance at them with the admiration of a child who’s seen his hero.
The artist has thrown caution to the wind. Has decided not to conform. Those who pick up brushes, pens, pencils and paint have chosen to perform the duties long held and passed down through the ages. The mark maker. The art farmer. The color singer and writer of visual yarn.