Decaying Artist

Photo by Lydia Silic

By Lydia Silic

Am I really an artist? Am I really a friend? Do people believe in me…do believe in myself? They say ‘You are what you believe’, or is that ‘you are what you eat’? I gaslight myself, I doubt my passion. Is that me in the photo? Are the flowers alive or dead? Has this been done before? A continuous cycle of self-contempt. I’m an imposter, I’m hiding away, hoping no one sees through my facade. Maybe they do. Yet for one fleeting moment, now and then, I believe.

“I didn’t make this,
I could not have made this,
I took it from Erika,
Or David or Chris.

I like it,
Clearly, it’s good,
But I could not,
Have made good, great or more.

I’m an imposter,
A fake, a liar, a prepostor,
I am no creative,
These ideas are stolen,
A thief, true and native.

This line is Picasso,
This type is Spiekermann,
That colour is Myerscough,
The signs of a plagiarism,
Or that of a fan?

Perhaps creativity isn’t original at all,
Perhaps I’m building myself for a fall,
You can only create what you know,
You know what of what you’ve seen,
Of the books you read,
Of the music heard and exhibitions been.

To be fake is to be what one is not,
To create is striking the iron when hot,
Dali stole, Turner stole and Goldsworthy stole,
Creativity isn’t pure and whole.

Draw the line,
Between inspiration,
To be a true imposter,
Creating fine creation.”

Vincent Walden

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