My Big Audacious Dreams 12/31/24

From the journal December 2024:

I hate New Year’s. The confetti, the lists, the pressure to recount the “best moments” of the past year—it all feels like a cruel setup, a sure way for depression to take center stage. Every December, we are bombarded with promises to live more creatively, to fulfill some ideal of health and happiness, and it’s exhausting. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the allure of new beginnings, the hope that drapes itself over the first of January like a warm blanket, but those resolutions? They feel like a farce, a way for the wellness and fitness industries to reel us back in with their shiny slogans. I see this trend creeping into the art community, too, with artists proudly displaying their “top nine” posts or the exhibitions they participated in, as if success can be quantified by likes and follows. It’s nauseating, this constant competition, this hierarchy that leaves emerging artists feeling like failures—like they’ll never measure up.

Let me assure you: if you’re feeling like a loser, you’re not alone. What you see online is rarely the full truth. Yes, there are some who share authentically, but for every honest post, there’s a curated image designed to sell a lifestyle, to create envy. Artists are often the biggest culprits of this lifestyle advertisement; crafting narratives in a way that makes others want to be like us. It takes time to sift through the noise, to recognize what’s worth following and what’s just a waste of your precious energy. I’ve fallen into the trap, too—scrolling through feeds, feeling my heart sink as I compare my messy reality to someone else’s polished facade.

When I post, I try to be real, to share my enthusiasm without glossing over my insecurities. I want you to know that I experience disappointment and doubt, just like everyone else. Even if I don’t like the commercialized aspects of New Year’s, I appreciate the current of hope that runs through it—the way people open themselves to dreaming a little bigger, valuing their aspirations, understanding the necessity of hope. While I steer clear of resolutions, I find myself contemplating my big, audacious dreams for the year ahead, the ones that make my heart race and my palms sweat. These are not the small goals like completing a 5K or painting a piece each week( these are wonderful and perfectly acceptable goals, and I’m not devaluing them); no, I’m talking about the dreams that feel almost embarrassing to admit, the ones that stretch me far beyond my comfort zone.

So, here they are, my audacious dreams laid bare:

Love. It feels monumental because the journey has been anything but easy. I want it to feel safe, uncomplicated, and full of joy.

Teaching a local art retreat for three to five days has been a long-held dream of mine. Yet, when I think of the logistics, the details, it feels impossible. Financial worries loom large, and the inner critic chimes in, whispering, “Who do you think you are? Why do you think you’re special enough to teach?” It’s a thought I’m not proud of, but it’s one that has stifled this dream for years.

Then there’s the fantasy of getting away, living in a remote cabin in the Scottish Highlands, surrounded by sheep and deer, with great internet and breathtaking views. But I don’t want to leave my home—what I crave are getaways where I can paint and write. Yet, the logistics of making this a reality often feel out of reach. Still, I’m determined to try again this year.

A road trip through the desert calls to me, though I loathe the heat. I dream of traversing New Mexico, Arizona, California, sketching and painting the landscapes that inspire me. But finding the right time to go seems perpetually elusive. I have playlists ready, a vision brewing, and I’m determined to make it happen.

I want to publish a book—ideally, a traditionally published one. I envision a collection about my art process, interwoven with short stories and poetry. It feels like such a massive undertaking, but the dream persists.

And then there’s the desire for a solo show. Admitting this feels self-important and uncomfortable, but it’s a dream that lingers, every studio artist’s aspiration. I want to keep it in my sights, hoping to shift my perspective on its significance.

Lastly, I must confront the financial chaos that haunts my creative life. The thought alone invokes dread, and I often feel like that toothpick scene from Rain Man, overwhelmed by numbers and details. Financial planning has never been my strength, but I know that to level up, to truly step into art as a career, I need to face it head-on. So here I am, putting on my big girl undies, adulting and shit.

As I scribble these dreams in my journal, I remind myself that there’s power in hope, in daring to dream audaciously, and in sharing the messy, imperfect journey that we all traverse. It’s not about resolutions; it’s about embracing the possibility of what could be, the magic that lies in our aspirations, and the courage to pursue them, even when the path feels daunting.