Anxiety. Anxiety is without a doubt the feeling one gets when showing off their work. Art, whatever it is, something that has come from the heart, something wherein the deepest parts of us come out. Our desires, that which we enjoy, that which we hate. . . Of course one would feel anxious when revealing such things to others, for ours is a world of masks and hidden selves.
My first work was of little merit, base imitation, it didn't speak to that which I truly felt in that moment. I felt anxiety's kiss, but only just.
When an audience had found itself to me, small though it may be, I felt the weight of their expectations. Should I maintain the course and continue painting what I had always done? Or should I branch out draw something deeper out from within myself? What I truly desired to paint. Falling. The loss of self. That sense only grew as more Eyes fell upon Me.
Eyes upon me. How they observed. Eyes upon me. How they demanded. Eyes upon me. I am molded by their whim. Eyes upon me. I have lost the self, I am only what they wish me to be. Else. . . I might lose their gaze. Eyes upon me.
Paralyzed by them. I am left with nothing to speak of, I have again adorned a mask of my own creation.
