One of the best things about creating art is being able to express myself without saying a word. Something always falls short when I speak, which makes me generally quiet. I’m either quiet or passionately wordy. Nothing in-between. Art bridges that gap.
I might never open my mouth to tell someone I’m having a tough time. Or let myself actually slap someone. If you throw your negative energy my way you bet I’m going to turn it into something constructive.
Making art, I get to create a world that doesn’t necessarily exist. Where women aren’t depicted as flat characters. They’re beautiful, they’re tough warriors, full of secrets, awkward yet decidedly sexy. It’s my choice what they are. I get to defy stereotypes.
Growing up I was raised by two parents who were very protective and strict (in some ways). Don’t worry mom and dad, I know you did your best, I understand and I love you.
My dad has a very 50s image of how a lady should be. Being raised by him was very confusing. At first, he’d try and keep me from wearing anything too feminine. Makeup, skirts, slim fitting clothes, etc. He’d accuse my mom that she was trying to make me a slut. Then did a 180 and expected me to wear dresses and heels because I’m a “woman”. He raised me thinking of me as a girl (instead of being simply a person), who needed to be protected, a fragile object. One who shouldn’t go on road trips or be out late at night. A rule follower.
My mom always wanted me to be classically feminine. Or a mini-her. Parents do this a lot, try to form us in their image instead of helping us figure out what we actually like. She bought me makeup, we’d watch old movies and fashion shows. She made me aware of societal expectations, what to be aware of, and lessons I could learn from other people’s mistakes. I was also taught to cook and clean, because men typically don’t do those things. Also to be self sufficient.
So I’m going on this tangent, and I’ll get back to my point real soon. Okay? Being raised that way, given so many conflicting rules made me anxious. I was a goody fucking two shoes; I followed all the rules no matter how many I was given. (I have to thank my brother however, he introduced me to rock n’ roll, my parents didn’t really listen to any).
I can’t tell you the exact moment, but I’ll tell you what. I stopped caring so much about the rules because they were getting me nowhere. I was choking. Rules only benefit those who create them.
It’s okay to like punk rock, flowers, wear dresses, be chubby and never shave. You might like wearing men’s clothes, glitter eyeshadow, read cheap novels, and be a doctor or a lawyer. You can like pop music as much as politics. You can be both serious and silly. Being silly isn’t a negative trait.
You can do what you want, be who you want. You don’t have to be who people expect you to be. Tone it down for no one. Love who you want, don’t be ashamed.
This is what I want to express. Celebrate the grey areas. Encourage you to love yourself. Make yourself happy. Be your own hero. Write your own damn story.
This is what I believe. That is what makes me Wishcandy.