To tell the truth, I cringe and decry having to write a commercial description of my artist. I don’t know how to sell her. She’s not super commercial, cool or interesting, she’s maybe even a little bit on the ugly side of cute, with the on-stage charisma of a deflated soccer ball.
She dwells in the swampy places of my consciousness, mucking with all my most unhelpful thoughts. Knee-deep in sludge, she’ll occasionally unearth something unique and shiny. It’s in those moments I feel I can articulate something intangible, making form out of some non-corporeal concept.
I lost my artist, somewhere along the way, in the grind of the instrumental musician. I was pushed, pulled, pressured and shamed through exam, audition, practice session and lesson, until I felt completely adrift. My undoing became my mooring, and I swam from buoy to buoy; achievements were lifelines in the sea void of purpose.
I ran into one of my old music teachers a few years into my study.
“I’ve been telling my students what an amazing writer you are,” He said, “Do you still write?”
I had forgotten. I had forgotten, in the whirlwind of early adult life, I had forgotten to write. Prose, poems, short stories, essays, songs. I had forgotten how.
A question rang in my mind, “What has she lost?” followed by, “What can’t she find?”. On stinging, unpracticed fingers, I carefully excavated a song using these lyrics, my unused voice ringing over my tiny nylon string guitar. The words, the melodies, came begrudgingly, although I was convinced that they existed already and were awaiting my discovery. It was such a blissful, flow state experience, that it became my outlet for my every spare moment. The guitar became my haven; a gentle harmonic cushion to lay all of my emotions upon, to examine them in the light of melody.
It felt like a radical rejection of the instrumental music path - one honed through discipline, repetition and grit. It was completely easeful, and could moorishly consume hours in a way that my practice sessions could not. These hours became years, my voice clear and strong, my songs complex, concise distilleries of my experiences, my guitar playing more expressive and informed.
There is a stubborn independence and rebelliousness about my spirit - unfortunately, even I cannot order her around. She goes as she pleases, with little regard for fiscal motivations. Her focus is unmatched, although I have no choice where it will be directed next.
Perhaps I will never be a well-branded artist. My identity is not strong or clear to me even internally, and I am helpless but to live via pervasive candour. I will share though; on the cusp of my first album, I promise to share whatever I’ve got with you. That’s what I can offer.