The Artist

A Poem by Devyn Summers

“Drawing a blank” describes me perfectly... Except instead of a clean, blank, piece of paper, its more like a paper that’s wrinkled with smudges everywhere. Like maybe the artist tried to put something there, but it didn’t work out. So then they tried erasing it but that didn’t work out either. And its not like you can’t still use this piece of paper. In fact this piece of paper has the potential to turn out to be something amazing. The artist just doesn’t know what yet. And it could possibly take their whole life time to figure it out. But the question is: Am I the artist? Or the paper? I guess I’m a little bit of both in a way. Maybe the paper is my life and the artist this the decisions I make on how to change my life. But then another question arises. If I’m both the artist, and the paper... then why can’t I figure out what I want to happen? After all the artist does have control over what it is that goes on the paper. And the paper is all the artist needs to put their ideas into motion. Well that...and a pencil. But does the artist not also control the pencil? And if that’s the case then it’s the availability of the pencil that really matters. And if there is no pencil available then what is the artist to do but sit there and imagine what they’d like to go on paper? So the pencil is freedom. But who gives us that pencil? The thing needed to make that artwork possible? That is the real question.