Wearing Pants on my Head

An Identity Crisis.

Identity is a funny thing, and reprogramming one's identity can feel like an impossible task. Shifting out of a comfort zone and into a new skin can feel exactly like that. Like removing one's skin with a carrot peeler and then trying to sew a new identity in place, it's wildly uncomfortable, even painful. It might take years for the new skin to fit properly—which is why it puts the lotion on the skin. Ha.

I've been noticing some ill-fitting skin recently. I'm taking a class with my friend, gallery sister, and fellow artist, Khara. The class is online, so we gather around a laptop once a week to watch videos and take notes.

I value spending time with Khara so much!
Not only is she delightful and clever, but she sees the world through a much different lens than I do.

This has become even more evident as we get deeper into the course. Khara's notes are beautifully illustrated in her sketchbook, while mine are neat and business-like, with bullet points in my lined composition notebook.
Now and then, I'll look at her notes, remember we are taking an art class, put a doodle in the margin of my notebook, and hope she doesn't notice my artist pants are on my head. 

Both pairs of pants (artist and business pants) have their place.

My office worker-bee pants have been an asset to the gallery as I've wielded my G: Drive file folders, branding guidelines, content calendars, and Slack log-ins, whipping the back side of the gallery into a shape that no one asked for.

But having these more prevalent office pants show up more in charge than my artist pants means that I've got to make a conscious decision to put on my artist pants.
Sometimes, those pants feel tight, like I went out to an all-you-can-eat nacho bar the night before and did shooters of nacho cheese with Earl until 2 a.m.

Like me, Khara grew up with artistic influences, but unlike me, she never put down her paintbrush. She's been making money as an artist since she was a teen. 

She goes to sleep as an artist, wakes up, and eats breakfast as an artist. She moves through her day covered in paint, with her artist pants firmly in place.

Sometimes we will be talking, I will say something, and she will tilt her head slightly with a confused look and says in the nicest, most polite way, "You've got your artist pants on your head again - they go on your butt." I'm like, "Oh, right,".

-Or - she would say that if she knew about this analogy.

While I grew up with art all around me, I never considered myself an artist. My mom was the artist.
Being obsessed with Fashion Plates and spending hours upon hours drawing new outfits didn't feel like art—it was fashion!

It was also what we did in our house; we drew, made, fixed, and created things. It wasn't considered special or unique; it was just what we did.  

This is to say that I didn't develop the identity of "An Artist" as a core pillar in my formative years.

To this day, when I meet someone new and they ask what I do, I answer with my day job title, and then, if I remember, I hurriedly add that I paint as well. 
And then I stand there feeling silly with my artist pants on my head, flapping gently in the breeze. 

But it begs the question, then, as someone who makes art each day, has their art in a gallery full-time, went to art school, and has the title "artist" on their Instagram and stuffed it into their business name (in an attempt to make it feel real, and yet it still doesn't), what does it take to FEEL like an artist?

How long will it take before my go-to actions are those of an artist rather than an office worker-bee? How long before these artist pants feel like they fit on my butt and stop ending up on my head? 

Illustration of my Artist Pants on my head

As I pick apart these questions, it occurs to me that to feel like an artist, I likely need to invest in some self-belief, some belief that I am an artist and not a fraud faking my way through each day.
The act of painting makes me an artist, regardless of how "good" or "bad" the painting is.  

Imposter syndrome is a sneaky, deceptive bitch that hides in dark corners and slithers through the subconscious and under the new layers of freshly stitched skin, whispering sweet toxic nothings.
It's so hard not to listen.

Imposter syndrome and itchy skin aside, I'm so wildly grateful for people like Khara, who know how to wear their pants on their butt and who are willing to gently say, "Butt, not head."

Do you feel like who you want to be? 
If not, why not, and what will it take?