I see the word "art" and I inwardly cringe. I have a hard time imagining a topic I am less educated about. Perhaps I am less knowledgeable about the topic "hedge fund." But only just.
Of course, much of that cringing must be because I am not an artist. That does not mean that I have not often been surrounded by artists. My first true love was an artist. I mean, a real artist who ended up in one of the top art schools in the country.
I was surrounded by creative types throughout the high school theatre program. Actors and actresses who ended up working professionally. [No, not on the street. Although a few might be street performers.]
Then there was a dearth of artists around me for a number of years. True, I ran the college newspaper, but I didn't particularly see journalists as artists. That perception was reinforced by my many years at the San Francisco Chronicle. There were reporters and then there were the artists supporting them in the newsroom: the graphic artists, page designers, photographers and illustrators. Sprinkle in the 30-odd graphic artists and copywriters in the marketing department -- which I ran for far too long before jumping over to hang with all the newsroom people -- and you see where creativity comes in.
And now everywhere I look, there is an artist. My best friend from college has her own studio in the South Bay. One of the first friends I made blogging, Jenica, has worked so hard at letting her creativity blossom. Most blogs I frequent are either written by damn good photographers published authors or artisans of some sort with their own Etsy store. Laini at Sunday Scribblings is about set to publish another book in her series. My kids all feel as if they are budding artists of some sort.
So, forgive me all you talented folks, for cringing when talking about art. Now that I think about it, talking about it is the closest I'm going to get to art.