What is an artist without art?

I often struggle with the depth of success. The concept of it is so subjective, based on opinions. How does one even begin about measuring it and how is it decided who has ‘made it’ or not? What units of measurement should even be used that allows you to adequately compare people to each other? Fame? Money? Accomplishments? The word accomplishment also is confusing. What accomplishments are significant and what aren’t? Once when I was eight years old, I won a participation award. I didn’t feel accomplished and still I doubt that would go towards any levels of success now or back then.

I suppose I am successful. At the very least, I used to think I was.

When I was but a child, full of youth and innocence, I began to discover the skill of art. I fell head over heels with creating: the stroke of a paintbrush, the slight hiss of an airbrush, the fresh trail of grey against the white paper. Art was a passion and with each new idea and thought, it burrowed itself deeper and deeper into me, taking its own space in a chamber of my heart and sharing a single heartbeat with me.

My skills expanded and progressed until I had taken classes for calligraphy, carving, and engraving. There were lessons on embroidery, drawing, sculpting and scrapbooking. There were learnings of origami, sewing and tie dying. I learnt and gathered tips and tricks for arts of all sorts. I won awards, made money and spread my name within the art community.

I was young but created experience for myself and that was why I was successful. Money was stable, inspiration booming, and I was happy. Life continued and I got married, found a house and settled down to think, design and create forever. And then disaster. Or more so, a middle-aged man driving thrice the speeding limit into oncoming traffic.

It was chillingly hot, numb but painful, terrifying but peaceful. The flashing lights of sirens sent daggers of light through the darkness of the night sky. As I laid limp on the dashboard of my car, pieces of glass of all sizes broke through the flesh of my face and my body was twisted, angled in strange and particular ways. My dominant hand was trapped, my fingers unable to move, all of the bones had snapped and remained unnatural. It only took a second for me to realise that even though I did not die, my death of an artist had just occurred.

I received letters, flowers and presents. Wishes of good luck, kisses of relief and bids of good health. Doctors congratulated me on my luckiness, visitors tried to avoid the absent of my hand and my husband wouldn’t leave my side. No body mentioned the evident but impending future involving a lack of art. I refused to think of it, reassuring myself I’d find a way.

And I did try. I tried for days, weeks, months to work it out. I tried in hospital and at home, in bed and at my workstation. My stump each time unable and disappointingly useless to any part of my work. I became a ball of fury, self-loathe and disappointment; unpleasant to be around. I didn’t just run out of ideas either, they continued to develop, a never-ending source of creativity gathering uselessly in my mind, only now adding to my depression. I had never cried so much prior.

Slowly with the decrease in productivity, the money grew rare and infrequent, our main source of income relying on my husband. In the art community, my name was associated with pity and sympathy, forever labelled as disabled and linked to that man’s mistake. Life grew dull: never before had my life lacked such colours, however, now was a never-ending blur of pure grey.

I trashed my art room. All work that was midway prior to the accident became reminders of what could have been, what should have been and what would now never be. All work that was already completed became reminders of what was and what could never happen again. They were all sold for extra cash or destroyed in a tantrum or taken and hidden. I grew sour and difficult but determined to put the artistic life behind me. No longer did my heart continue to beat along with it. The passion and desire surrounding the usual thoughts of art had disappeared. Now only a sick feeling of despair and failure formed with each thought associated. So, with numbing emotions and many hard months, I closed that chapter of my life and began to seek elsewhere.

An old art friend of mine suggested I took up writing. I had offered a sad laugh, assuming they were attempting a joke. Later, I went home, an ungrateful cloud of blame and self loathe. I told my husband about it and had been threatened to either attempt something, anything or my hand wasn’t the only thing I would lose. “What’s an artist without art?” He had finally reached breaking point with my lack of innovation and my unintentional blame directed at everyone else. As harsh as it was, he knew me better than anyone and so the next day I began brainstorming.

How was I to write without a hand? I sat at my art desk for hours, my stump occasionally reaching down to uselessly knock a resting pencil for no reason other than to make myself feel sorrier for myself. Finally, I lifted the pencil in my opposite hand, the wood feeling foreign and uncomfortable and I resisted the urge to pass it to my non-existent other hand but denied. I turned it over in my fingers trying to find a place of comfortable but unable to.

It took a few attempts, but I managed to draw a vertical line. It was a mess and didn’t start or end or even trial where I desired it too. Still, I carried on and messily scribbled my name on the blank paper. Barely readable, I cried in frustration but attempted again: same results. I repetitively tried, over and over and over, each attempt becoming bigger and more forcible until the pencil tip was cutting through the thin paper and I let it in anger.

The next day I tried again. And the day after. And again, and again, and again, day after day after day. Little to no improvement.

Finally, my husband, who casually wandered in and out of the room, came to see my progress and offered to be my translator from words to paper. He said he would write if I created the story, telling him what to write. He said he would work with me and help. I politely declined and continued to work and try.

Finally, after a few months progress was made as I managed to rewire my brain and change old habits. No longer was my initial reaction to pick the pencil up in my phantom, dominant hand. I could draw lines neater and clearer but still painfully slow. My curves with certain letters were bad, bumpy and ineligible. But still any progression was good.

Over eleven months after deciding to learn to write again I brought my husband is to look at my work after carefully writing a collection of things including a shopping list, his full name, numbers from 1 to 20 and the entire alphabet. He study my work like a critic, finally smiled as he gathered me in his arms and gave me a giant kiss screaming success and pride. I hadn’t smiled that wide in years as he whispered how proud he was of me.

Although the progression was heart lifting, my handwriting was still taking too long. In my head, ideas to write had already formed along with character developments and I itched to be able to take note of everything. To continue so slowly was causing unrest and impatience. I just wanted to be able to start something, to feel the creative juices flow and to get lost in my work once more.

I told my husband of this, more so ranted and cried to him and the next day, he brought me a laptop, placing it in front of me, on top of the letter ‘t’ I had been working on. He told me to teach myself how to type again and that there was a voice program already downloaded that translates speech to digital words if I need it. He also made me promise to continue to practise my handwriting.

I was ecstatic and overly keen to start with big dreams and ideas.

It was more difficult and slower than I had expected nor wanted, and I disliked the speech application as it felt like I was cheating. Part of writing is spelling and to form the letters to make up the words. There is no writing without words. Finally, however words began to form on the white digital paper on the screen as letters were formed. And I had never felt prouder and more accomplished. Successful, even.

Currently I have written one thousand, five hundred and ninety-five words in total, completing the entirety of my very first story. No matter how short it is, how unsophisticated my words are and how long of length of time it took me to write this, I have never felt more successful. To answer earlier questions, I believe success is subjective however should only involve your own opinion. Success is dynamic, however changing. At this point of time however, I relate to the word of success.