Ar-teest

Millennium Park

Wabash Avenue Bridge near Trump Tower

Chicago River Water Taxi

Chicago River staircase railing

I was at a learning conference in Chicago last week.  In one of the sessions on experiential learning (the woman was attempting to drive home her poorly contrived point by teaching us to draw a face), she asked who in the room was an artist.  Out of about 300 people, 5 probably raised their hands.  And that struck me as sad.  Because when I went to C-man's classroom, every single kid in there feels s/he is an artist.  They were so proud of their beautiful work, and how well they'd all done at painting their mothers.

At what point do we lose that inhibition to create?  At what point did I become so self-conscious about what I could see and imagine that I could no longer define myself as an artist?  When do we doubt our abilities to do something new? Is it because it's not considered humble to refer to yourself as something so lofty? Is the term "artist" just too anomalous in our well-defined world?

I'm not sure the answer to any of these.  But what I do know is I like to take pictures. A lot. I know I find serenity and thrill behind the lens of my camera, no matter how many times my son flips between, "Stop taking my picture" and "Mom, take a picture of this. This is awesome!" And I laugh every time Beerman has to remind me it's inappropriate to climb up on THAT in those heels.  I get a thrill finding a new perspective behind my lens each time, no matter how many stares I get that I'm taking a picture THERE. And I know it's something that feels so tangible; almost like a stamp that says, "Jennifer was here" with each click of the shutter.

So maybe the word artist is too much for what I am.  But the next time someone asks who in the room is an artist, I'm raising my hand anyway. And you probably should too.