artist

Pondering the Question, “Why Don’t I Sell My Art?”

First I have to get rid of the pat answers like, “I’m not that broke yet.” What pops up next is the cowardly, “Who would buy them, anyway?” Getting offers kind of squashes that one. Beginning to dig gives rise to the question, “Why do I even make art in the first place?”

I remember asking that of my first art teacher and he replied, “To have something to look at.”  That’s true; I’m not tired of looking at my artworks yet. Why put them in galleries, then? Pat answer:  Not enough wall-space at home.  That’s true, but I deeply want others to look at and appreciate these children of my muse.

I think it starts with the idea behind each painting, before I get the canvas dirty. There’s something inside that wants to get out, rooted to something I’m gazing at that begs to be seen.

Pause here for a quote from Henry Miller:  “The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.” 

Like that.

I’m good. I know I’m good and I’m not modist about being good.  I worked hard to get good and I’m sometimes in awe at just how good I am.  Somehow this art flows out of me while I’m in a state of focus I call “art trance.” I will emerge, look at what I’ve done and wonder how the heck I did that.  There is a sadness when I realize that the painting is done, that it has all it needs to be itself.  But I can look at it and appreciate it down to each brush stroke and every thought.

I was fortunate to discover and study under Charles Becker, who opened my eyes to a whole ‘nother level of seeing. I realized how special his teaching has been when someone approached one of my paintings and tried to find his reflection in a painted silver goblet.  Magic.

Would you sell your children? Me neither.  I tried once to put prices on my art, based on how much money it would take to ease the pain of separation. A viewer once asked me, “Why do you price these so high?” which is kind of an insulting question when you think about it. I just said, “Because I can.”  I realized that I didn’t want my paintings to hang on just anybody’s wall. 

Now, I have taken commissions because they are from sincere people wanting symbols of what they deeply care about.  I’ve done wedding and valentine and baby and hero and “here’s a portrait of you I made because….”  Most often for free.  This is different.  This is heart to heart art. 

Blue Light Press is a scruffy gang of poets.  They had a workshop at a place where I hang and someone made a poem based on one of my paintings, and it got published along with the painting itself.  This is also appropriate heart art. Today I’m sending off jpegs of some of my paintings for Blue Light poets to riff off of in the future. That’s so cool.

Why don’t I sell my art? It’s precious.

Jim Fish

is Colorado born. Raised there and in Florida.Masters in Education. Math and Science teacher for some 50-odd years. Also stage, group and close-up magician (club founder and author). Recently retired.  Oh yes, also an artist.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

My Pulpit

Sometime in the mid-90s, I sat in a church pew, in a small church in Detroit, Michigan. I’m wearing pants that are either too small or too big, a white button-down shirt, and a very uncomfortable tie. This was a typical Sunday for my family. My father was the pastor of that church. A charming, passionate, devout missionary. He’s jumping up and down. Shouting. Running up and down the aisle, getting his conjuration juiced up for our lord and savior. There’s an art to preaching. There’s an art to having to know how to get people attracted and stay enticed with Christianity. He had it. He knew he had it. I wanted it.

For my entire life I’ve been chasing that feeling. That sort of rock star admiration. Even though he was spreading the word of God to the masses, let’s face it, he was a rockstar. People flocked to see him. People paid to see him. He booked jobs across the world to do what he did. Without realizing it, I began to seek that sort of love. I thought I wanted to be a preacher like him. What exhilaration he had to feel, having all those eyes on him. All those ears opening to him. Somewhere along the way I lost sight of the church. The question now is, where will I find that admiration?

When it comes to art, story reigns king. Let’s look at our first rock star. Don’t laugh, but yes, I’m talking about Jesus.

As I said earlier, there takes artistry in keep the masses invested in what it is you do. And how was it that he kept his flock, flocking? Parables. He knew how to pass out parables, like he was passing out hot cakes. With these stories, he was able to tap into their senses, for his teachings to well, make sense. Did I want to be a storyteller this entire time?

During the winters of Detroit, there wasn’t much playing outside. We had to find somewhere to go while we waited for our parents to pick us up. I walked into the Colman A.Young center, on a Friday. It was movie day. I sat down, and for the first time I saw Tom Cruise. Mission Impossible 2. That’s what I wanted to do. Be an action star. But…I had to learn how to act first.

Speeding up this story, I’m now studying Theatre in college. I spent most of my adult life chasing the dream of a storyteller. An older professor of mine told us, you must jump in the pool. Don’t wait for anyone else to jump in. Go get it yourself. So, I spent years writing scripts, discovering poetry, directing failed projects, acting in projects that weren’t mine, failing repeatedly. I refused to call myself an artist because of my failures. Again, I found myself questioning, how can I find that admiration?

Somehow, I found myself in the service industry.

For years I didn’t really care much about it. I was lucky enough to land a gig that changed everything. You see, I’ve realized there’s a bit of artistry in everything. If you’re willing to search it out. Care. Once I leaned into that notion, I became so appreciative of what I do. I get to meet new people, tell them my stories, and listen to theirs. I get to touch people with my presence, and the drinks I create. I tell my staff often, everyone that walks through that door is our friends for the night. We get to change someone’s day. Blessings. What a blessing it is to find your place in society. Art is not only about paintings and symphonies. Art is about people. Stories. Experiences. Trust. Time. Love. There’s honor in people trusting you with their stories, and with their time. With my training and experiences, I bartend like no one has bartended before. I fill my days with creativity, stories, and just darn fun. I admire the ones that sit at my bar, and therefore they admire me. It took stepping behind this particular bar to finally say, hell yes, I’m an artist. I’m a rock star. I found my pulpit after all.

Aaron Ivory

has been tending bar throughout Memphis for the last decade. Although he despises the term, mixologist, he enjoys getting to create fun new cocktails. He has been acknowledged for his work in Memphis Magazine, along with other local and national publications. Before spending his days behind bars, Aaron studied Theatre Performance at the University of Memphis. There he found his love for writing poetry, plays, and screenplays. He hopes to be able to share his work someday.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Princess and the Pea

My daughter Maya sleeps in my painting studio. In the evenings I kiss her goodnight though she is 21. Maybe mothers always do that. I pass my hand over her forehead like I have done since she was a small child. Her brow no longer needs to be unstitched though. Her forehead is smooth. She is at peace, or just tired.

When I peek into the room it is often still early; she is either lying in the dark or finishing a movie, laptop propped upon her bent knees, on top of the blankets. One of them is a Pepto-Bismol-pink uncovered comforter. I suggested putting a cover on it but she resisted – and I suspect it’s more than laziness. It’s a down comforter that I have had since my single days. I used it uncovered myself because I didn’t know yet about comforter covers, in my 20’s, sleeping alone after my married lover had left for the night. My mother died too soon in my life to give me advice about what kinds of sheets to get, let alone what kind of men to date. I didn’t even know about putting bleach in a wash until after I had my own children. It had felt luxurious, buying that comforter, cover or not. The other blanket is dense cotton, a flat pale blue. My then-husband and I had gotten it for one of our earlier beds. Maya doesn’t want a sheet either; she prefers to sleep directly under both of these artifacts.

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.

The pull-out sofa she sleeps on is stiff, a cheap Ikea model, steel-gray, a pole running through the length. She keeps it open, untidied. It doesn’t pay for her to redo the couch every day since I am not working in the studio right now. She says she doesn’t feel the pole, but I think she is telling me a white lie. I believe she feels it, but doesn’t want me to think she is uncomfortable.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.

She has set herself up in my studio because she does not want to revisit her past by sleeping in her bedroom again; I sleep in her room. She does not want to sleep in her brother’s old room, either, for fear it would signal some kind of permanence, or normalcy. In his room, the chestnut platform bed sits bare except for a white mattress-cover, and her cat who snoozes on the satiny surface. From the outside, it is ridiculous that she doesn’t sleep there. She has no real memories in that bedroom. Three of the six dresser drawers are empty. Luna, her cat, is already warming the bed. But even that, she explained, would imply that she was settling back in, which I interpreted as meaning that she would not be the different, newly hatched creature she needs to be.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.

Sleeping in her bedroom would, she fears, mean she is still the girl who dwelled inside the four walls of her rape. She would be encircled, again, by the rape. Instead, she sleeps within the womb of my paintings. For now, she is neither the Maya of her earlier years nor a freshly revealed being. She waits within this multi-hued, slightly oily-smelling space, an in-between time. Paintings of every size lean against the walls surrounding her. At night, she peers over the edge of her laptop to the angles of honey-wood stretcher-bars that frame whatever she watches. She sleeps amidst work from the different times of my life as an artist; she sleeps within my past, next to visions whose original meanings are largely forgotten, or are irrelevant.

“Well, we’ll soon find that out,” thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

She also sleeps next to a triptych that still pulses with its violent story: a painting of a rape. They hang one next to the other just above the couch bed, not turned to the wall. When I go into the room at night, I see her face illuminated by the computer’s glow. And, in that technological twilight, those paintings. What is exposed during the day: the tangle of bedding and the rape paintings; a painting of bodies on a raft done when we were figuring out how to survive; a painting I did of my middle-aged belly – a drawing of my son as an enraged adolescent glued to the upper-right corner. Nights, the rambunctious images slumber, save the rape paintings, which catch the glow of streetlights long after her laptop has been shut.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.

She sleeps by this shared history that will always, likely, remain crepuscular. I painted the rape triptych towards the end of the legal procedure following the charges she pressed against the rapist. The case now over, we are back home; she sleeps within my work like a fetus; she percolates not in my body but in my work, in the body of my work. She didn’t move back home; she moved into my work.

“Oh, very badly!” said she. “I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It’s horrible!”

There is a small glass-topped desk beneath two corner windows, just behind the side of the bed where she places her head. A pile of computer paper leans Pisa-like to the left of the rolling chair, another stack on top of the glass, another stuffed into the shelf underneath. They are all drafts of my recent memoir, about the rape from my – the mother’s – perspective. Maya sleeps next to all of it. Scattered pages blow off the most recent version when she opens the window before bed, littering the floor. White tiles speckled with type. She leaves them, the fanned paper making a half-halo seen from above, as she sleeps, waiting for either the full to arrive or the vanishing of the half.

Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.

Maya graduated from college last May, after finding out that she lost the case. Her valises line the wall where I normally prop my paintings while working. Clothing drapes across suitcases and boxes. One splayed heap is a collaged dirty-laundry mix of jeans, a blue striped sleep-shirt, beige linen pants, a teal turtleneck. Against the wall behind that jumble is a roll of paper on which I began a drawing. It also waits. I called this work an “infinite drawing” two springs ago, when I began it, implying that I would work on it forever – that it would never be done. They are both incubating, Maya and the drawing. Last week one of her new white t-shirts got charcoal on it that doesn’t seem to wash out. There’s always something on the floor that stains clothing. It is all infinite in this room, which is maybe the real reason Maya has moved in. She is surrounded with the kind of love artists learn to gel into paintings. She can’t stay there forever, but she can borrow it, the room and the infinite looking, for a while. And I can wait until she’s ready to move out. The bed I use in her old room has a fairly new hybrid memory-foam mattress. It is the most comfortable bed in the apartment, and I have a sore back.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.

Initially, she had brought the standing mirror from her old room into the studio, and leaned it against the framed edge of a portrait of her brother. Whenever I noticed, I inched it away from the painting, but would find it there again after a few days. Last night it was back in her bedroom. She might be getting ready to leave. Or maybe she doesn’t need to see herself any more.

So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.

Maya says she has never been happier than the time she has been sleeping in my studio. This time of her deepest sleep, after the end of the rape case. She doesn’t shut the shades, so the morning sun helps rouse her. It – the case – and she – remain preserved in amber light, until she wakes looking out over the supplies I use to make new worlds.

There. That is a true story.

Karen Kaapcke

is an award-winning visual artist whose work is included in many private collections. She has exhibited broadly, both in the US and Europe. Notable awards include first–place for self-portrait at the Portrait Society of America, and finalist for the prestigious BP Portrait Award, where her painting was exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery, London. She recently completed a memoir about mothering her daughter through a rape, subsequent illnesses, a trial in France, and both of their recoveries. Karen maintains studios in New York City and France. More about her painting can be found at www.karenkaapcke.weebly.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

A Journey to the Past

Throughout my childhood I had the pleasure of experiencing the diversity of two different worlds.

I lived in a busy Brooklyn apartment complex during the school year, and the courtyard was a hive of activity as neighbors played games and laughed. But summers were spent in the tranquil Catskills, where sleep-away camp provided the peaceful splendor of lakes and forests. The rural peace and metropolitan energy shaped me. I was automatically drawn to stories that echoed these themes of discovery and community.

As a child, I was a devoted reader, diving into books whenever I could. Free from the constant distractions of today, I immersed myself fully in the stories before me. While I read anything I could get my hands on, I was especially drawn to novels about characters searching for their identity and purpose. A well-crafted narrative had the power to pull me in completely, forging a deep connection to the protagonist and making their journey feel like my own.

In preparation for my debut book, A Flag for Juneteenth, I delved deeply into the history of slavery in America. My research included reading extensively, listening to podcasts, and examining online archives. Among the materials I discovered, a photograph of a young girl from the Library of Congress resonated profoundly with me. Her image seemed to embody the spirit of my heroine, and she became a guiding inspiration as I crafted the character’s personality and narrative. These resources allowed me to envision the lives, struggles, and resilience of those who endured this harrowing period in history.

I wanted my main character’s name to be distinctive, something unfamiliar to readers. I imagined her as a prophetic figure, someone who could witness the historic moment of slavery’s legal end in America while also symbolizing a hopeful vision of a future free from bondage. In my search for inspiration, I looked up biblical female prophets and came across an image of a striking Black woman named Huldah. The name immediately felt right, it perfectly captured the essence of my character.

Huldah’s baby sister, Eve, also has a meaningful biblical name. Derived from the Hebrew word for “to breathe” or “to live,” it reflects her future as a child born into a world no longer bound by the chains of enslavement.

Another named character in the story is Mr. Menard, the oldest man on the plantation. His surname comes from Michel B. Menard, the first plantation owner in Galveston, Texas, where the story takes place. Including this detail felt important to me, as it highlights how enslaved people were often stripped of their identities and given the names of their enslavers, severing ties to their own family histories.

I wanted to find a way to engage young readers with a historical event that is often overlooked in schools and connect them to a time so different from their own. To do this, I decided to begin the story with an experience many children can relate to: the excitement of an upcoming birthday. My main character, Huldah, is a thoughtful and mature girl with a deep sense of responsibility. She spends her days caring for her baby sister while her parents toil on the plantation.

Readers meet Huldah on the day before her 10th birthday, which that year fell on a Sunday. Sundays were precious, a time for rest and for families to gather and reconnect. On this particular day, Huldah’s mother makes her favorite tea cakes in honor of her birthday, a rare treat that the demands of plantation life wouldn’t allow during the busy workweek.

The characters in my book are intentionally faceless, a choice made to encourage readers to imagine themselves in the story and form a personal connection with the narrative. My hope is that this approach deepens the emotional resonance of the story, making its themes and history more relatable and impactful.

I take immense pride in illustrating this book through quilting, a storytelling tradition passed down by my ancestors. As I designed each illustration, I carefully considered how to bring the text to life and decided which elements needed extra emphasis. For instance, the opening page mentions tea cakes, a simple yet cherished treat made by enslaved people using basic pantry ingredients. I wanted readers to see and imagine these tea cakes, so I recreated them with a piece of brown fabric from my collection, chosen for its subtle color variations. Although modest in appearance, tea cakes were rich in flavor and aroma, so I added hand-embroidered details to depict the scent drifting through the air.

The entire process of creating the illustrations took over a year. It was a monumental and deeply emotional undertaking. Since the characters in the story are faceless, I had to find alternative ways to convey Huldah’s personality and ensure she was recognizable across each scene. Achieving this consistency on such a small scale with fabric presented unique challenges. At times, Huldah felt so real to me that I told a friend she had become like a daughter. The connection I developed with her as a character was profound, and it made the journey of creating this book even more meaningful.

When teaching about this painful chapter in American history, it’s essential to illuminate the strength, resilience, and beauty of African and African American people during their enslavement. Equally important is highlighting the vital role that family and community played in their lives, a foundation that endured through incredible hardship and remains significant today.

As educators, we must go beyond the narrative of forced labor to explore what life was like during moments of rest and connection. Despite the oppressive conditions, enslaved people worked tirelessly to maintain bonds with their families and build a sense of community. By presenting them as fully realized individuals with hopes, relationships, and humanity, we foster empathy in young readers. This approach helps them recognize shared experiences rather than focus solely on differences, sparking a deeper curiosity about this pivotal period in American history.

Kim Taylor

is a speech language pathologist and Department Supervisor at a large school for deaf children. She is also an expert quilter whose works have been exhibited at several venues throughout the Mid-Atlantic region. Kim’s quilts reflect African American life, and she tells stories through her materials. After researching the origins of the Juneteenth celebration, she created a Juneteenth story quilt, which she has exhibited and presented in dozens of local schools. Realizing that many teachers and students were unaware of the holiday, she was moved to write this book. She lives in Baldwin, New York. 

To see more of Kim’s quilts, visit her website at MaterialGirlStoryQuilts.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Multidisciplinary Artist vs. Impostor Syndrome

Dear Multidisciplinary Artist,

Doing one thing was never my thing.  As a kid, I would often do several activities at the same time; drawing while writing or recording myself on a tape recorder while I sang along with my Fisher Price record player (yup…I’m vintage). This could be considered just a little kid thing, you know, you’ll grow out of being interested in so many different things, you’ll find your niche, you’ll settle down eventually…but what happens when you don’t? What happens when you actually find yourself most connected to your art and the world around you when you are engaged in multiple disciplines simultaneously?  Well, if you’re anything like me, you’ll spend quite some time (years) resisting the varied interests and instead try to find one discipline that checks all the boxes.  Quick tip, friends: resistance of one’s truth is the clearest path to disappointment (I just made that shit up, but I stand by it).

 

My brother once asked me, “Don’t you think you could go a lot farther in life faster if you just focused on one thing?”  Yes. The answer is yes, obviously, but I don’t do obvious, I don’t do easy, and I certainly don’t do subtle.  For some inexplicable Taurean reason, if you tell me no, I tell you watch me.  I come from a long line of teachers and artists of all kinds.  Growing up, dinner conversations often revolved around theater, music, film, and art.  It’s really no wonder that I ended up with the interests that I have.  It’s their fault and I am very grateful.

Now let’s break down a timeless classic: impostor syndrome.  By definition, impostor syndrome involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishments.  Ah yes, I can feel the low rumble of, “That’s me!” vibes and so I must ask: friends, why the hell do we do this?  I’m not sure I know a single artist who hasn’t suffered from this at some point in their careers, if not consistently.  How dare we think for a second that we can’t be successful at whatever we want do, and however we want do it?!  This helps nothing and I demand we stop this immediately.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a love affair with the arts and the need for creativity.  I’ll never forget the first Broadway play my dad ever took me to - Me And My Girl.  I was five years old and completely in love.  I am proud to say that I have been involved in the arts in some regard ever since.  I am not so proud to say that there were plenty of times where I just gave up.  I was different.  It seemed like everyone else was very content with focusing on one medium.  I reconsidered so many times.  I would constantly make deals with myself, trying to make sense of this inexplicable desire to create and make art on multiple platforms.  Why am I like this?! I’m a fraud who can’t decide on anything!  I thought, maybe I’m not good enough at one thing, maybe I’m too scattered, or maybe I’m just simply and terribly wrong. 

It wasn’t until the birth of my daughter, when I started to meditate on what wisdom I could actually dare to impart to this innocent little creature.  How could I tell her to be proud of who she is if I was constantly disappointed in myself?  How could I tell her to follow her dreams if I put mine on hold because I wasn’t sure I could do it?  Once again, I felt like an impostor; a phony, a phony artist, a phony human, and I was over it.  So I finally got the nerve to do the thing they teach you in Improv 101: SAY YES.  Say yes to the challenges.  Say yes to yourself.  Yes, you can and will.  It is definitely easier said than done, but let this serve as a reminder of the power of positive manifestation (don’t roll your eyes, that shit is real--try it!). As an artist, there really is little room for doubt in order to create art that can do what it is supposed to do: connect with others.


My least favorite question is, “What do you do?” How does one say, “I am a painter, an actress, a writer, a proofreader, a graphic designer, a store owner, a costume designer, and a makeup artist!” without sounding like I’m just completely full of shit?  (I’m also a mom, but I haven’t figured out a way to charge for that). Even now as I write this...it’s a little cringey, I’m not gonna lie!  However, once the self-judgment subsides, if I am fortunate enough to have the ability to accept multiple jobs and they don’t conflict, why wouldn’t I? (Especially if someone is willing to pay me for them, I mean…duh). 

 

Besides that, it all actually works together!  Multidisciplinary art combines several perspectives in order to create.  If my goal is to connect with as many people as I can through my art, it makes sense to do that in as many different avenues as I can.  I often find that the work flows most naturally when I am working on multiple platforms at once, as though they build off of each other, one inspiring the other.  I’m convinced there’s some secret communication tucked away in the folds of our brains, just waiting for the right impetus to break free to create, but we can only access it if we give it the proper space.  This is where multiple interests reign supreme! If I have a writing block, switching over to painting will often give my brain time to digest and vice versa.

 

I do not mean to suggest that all artistic problems will be resolved by changing mediums or activities (I think that’s called procrastination…another problem for another blog).  My point is: art is not something that has ever been made in a factory.  It comes from another world completely, an invitation from the beyond to share some inner source of humanity, be it love, sorrow, or everything in-between.  So why on earth would there be only one way to do it?

 

Although there was always space to share my ideas, I was still alone in this multi-career undertaking.  No one in my circle was attempting this.  There were no other paths to learn from or follow.   I always thought I should have someone else to experience art with, but there is no “should.”  Just like there is no right or wrong way to create art.  The truth is, creativity and art are always communal.  Even when it feels like you might be completely alone in your artistic endeavors, you’re not!  That’s the whole point of art anyway, isn’t it?  An expression of self to be shared with others, who can relate or learn or grow, for the betterment of humanity (or something like that, right?)

Ultimately, if you have a passion inside of you, if you want something that nobody else wants, and if you want it in a way that nobody else wants it, don’t doubt it.  This is where the need to create comes from.  You are not wrong or weird because of these inexplicable passions.  They are gifts!  I believe we have a responsibility to cultivate these gifts and share them with as many people as we possibly can.   The best thing you can do for yourself is to recognize your natural talents and put them to work for yourself.  The rest of the world may not understand you, but don’t let that slow you down!  Move at the pace that works for you, not them.  If they can’t keep up, so what?  Nobody knows what the hell they’re doing anyway.  Nobody.  Have courage.  Keep moving forward.  Create what you want to create, the way you want to create it.  If you make space for yourself, the world will follow suit.  You’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

 

XO,

Concetta




Concetta Rose Rella is a mom, writer, artist, actress, graphic designer, and makeup artist.  Recent credits include her play Moving Day, which was produced by Virtual Arts Productions and can be viewed on their website, virtualartsproductions.org. Concetta has recently been commissioned for three paintings internationally, to Belgium and England. This past month, Concetta co-starred in Five Flights, a short film by Kathleen Kaan; and, most notably, Concetta's daughter went on the big potty for very the first time. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.