'Artist Statement'

I always had a hard time defining myself as an artist. Since the dawn of my existence, I was drawn to the arts. As a mischievous kid I befriended a pair of my mom's zigzag scissors and ran about my parents' bungalow altering anything I pleased – one time my poor sister's hair was the target of my experiment and later our maid's toddler son would also become one of my victims. In retrospect, I think that my mission was to alter the mundane into something with a little more edge, darkness, and pizazz. When I grew a bit older, I began transforming the Mattel collection my dad had imported to me — myriad Barbie dolls, even a Skipper doll but no Ken doll. I recall dressing and undressing my dolls a million times and more. One day, frustrated with my subpar collection of female dolls, I decided to transform my Skipper doll into a boy. I chopped off all of her hair which followed a delicate session of lighter flame caressing what was left of her hair. I went as far as to sand down her plastic breasts against my abrasive cement window pane until her enlarged breasts diminished and gave her a boy-like, flat-chested appearance. My mom was always into sewing. She always tailored clothes for everyone she knew and at my request she'd make my dearest plastic friends the costumes of my desire. She made boy Skipper an outfit appropriate for her new identity and I was nothing less than a happy girl. As I grew older, my interests became scattered and my nature took a rather depraved turn which introduced innumerable phases into my pre-adolescent and adolescent life. Yet, in retrospect, I find that my admiration for the arts, photography, music, and writing has been an ubiquitous force that has shadowed me through all of my experiences. This was my window into redefining ennui-laden realities of the world by instilling the edge, darkness, and pizazz that I invariably longed for every step of the way. Even-though this was understood, I always suffered from a severe case of the “inferiority complex.” I never considered myself to be good enough in the arts to consider myself an “artist.” I was never “good enough” in photography to be a photographer. I was never prose savvy enough to consider myself a writer. This is what I felt. But I came to a realization recently amid the chaos that is my life. I can now aver that gaining the title of an artist isn't comprised of one's talents but rather one's lifestyle. I have been an artist, a photographer, and a writer all my life. Everything I do and everything I say and everything that I imbibe shrieks my identity as an artist.