Two years ago I was obsessed with becoming an artist. I wanted to create something that would speak volumes about my innermost thoughts and feelings. When people experienced my art, they would shower me with praise and accolades all because my creation would allow them a brief moment of euphoria.
Unfortunately, I can not sing, paint, nor dance, though I can cut a rug on a dance floor. More than anything I wanted to be recognized for my creative brilliance. I started with what I knew, writing. I began to pen creative non-fictions. Most of the time I would write about the terrible relationship that I just left or my feelings about my new, curvier body – I gained 40 pounds in less than one year. I enjoyed writing but I never could seem to find enough to knock out quality pieces. Besides, there was no room for prose in spoken word saturated Philly.
After I fell off with my creative writing and the pounds piled on, I grew to be extremely intrigued and engulfed by my appearance. I was not doing this in vain, but in a self-love sort of way. The extra weight meant that there was more of me to love. The cellulite pockets and stretch marks were my special decoration.
I soon realized that art was no longer just on a canvas or behind a microphone. Art is my body, face, hair, and every little bit of clothing, jewelry, hair styles, or tattoos that I place upon them. In many ways, my body is a canvas. My tattoos are no longer body modifications, but adornments that match perfectly with the waist beads that rest above my hips. My creativity is the thick framed glasses that always slip down to the bridge of my nose and my mohawk that I am currently getting tired of.
Just like any great piece of art, my body makes a statement. My unshaved legs, armpits and crotch tells a story of how when I don’t like to do something, I just won’t, regardless of what society and mass media says I should do. When I go braless, and my nipples are proud and prominently poking through my t-shirt or when my shorts can also be called coochie cutters, I am saying that this is my body, and despite my bulging thighs, I can wear whatever the hell I please.
And just like at The Louvre or The Met, the art is not to be touched. You may look, gawk, analyze, or question – that is permitted and completely expected. Only individuals that take great care and pay attention to details are allow to touch. I am, as we all are, artist. Artist who are creating and curating our own aesthetic which will ultimately become a masterpiece.