At about 2:45 on August 10th, 2010, a close friend in Nashville pissed me off. It started when he asked if it was fun being an artist. I told him that I had no idea. He said, “Come on, you’re an artist. Tell me what it’s like.” When I denied being an artist the second time, he talked about the book covers and CDs I’ve designed, photos I’ve taken, paintings I’ve sold, academic papers, short stories, books, songs and music I’ve written and the albums I've performed on. He went on to ask me about records I’ve produced and the stage, TV and film scores I’ve done. By the time he was finished, he’d convinced me I should call myself an artist.  

I’d never called myself an artist before. I grew up studying the art of great masters. Even in the small town I grew up in, there were men and women who did truly magnificent work in a variety of mediums. I never dreamt my scribblings would be compared to work like theirs. For me, they were artists. That’s wasn't how I thought of myself and it's not the way I think of myself today. In my mind, I’m a guitar player from Arkadelphia, Arkansas. That’s what I told him. He stared at me in disbelief, and went through a list of my work again. Eventually, I had to concede that I was an artist. But it feels wrong to say it out loud. He made me concede that I have a creative mind (another word I don’t use when I describe myself) and that I’m an artist. It was an incredibly awkward moment for me and one I’ll never forget. Maybe over time, I’ll come to terms with it and maybe, someday, I’ll introduce myself to people as an artist. I don’t know. In the meantime, I’ll keep doing what I love but I’m still pissed at him.

If you’re interested, here are links to some of my work. There are some of my favorite photos, a few paintings, and three series of photographs.