This Art of mine: First

I have been through a lot during these past few months, mostly things that helped me see myself and others through different lenses, things that came to me as questions, others that came as answers, pushing me forward, into new physical and metaphorical spaces.

Almost immediately after the Corona spread panic started, I decided to finally move out of my old room in North Acton where I used to live with my ex fiance and to a whole new room, bright and inspiring, all by myself in Shepherd’s Bush. I decided I’ve outgrown both my fiance and the room we’d shared and that I had to make a definitive decision that would affect the both of us, I had to be the one to say it out loud: we were too different and perfectly incompatible. There hadn’t been any significant growth, any forward moving since we’d been together. We both had to admit it: we were over.

It was a really bold move, something that needed to be done and yes, I know, perhaps the timing was not the best – although what better time to reset your life and start over, if not a world-wide economic, health and social crisis, an Apocalypse during the most uncertain era you have ever experienced anyway? Talking about big cojones or just a new level of insanity! I mean, this is totally something Raluca would do, just following on her own path, regardless of whatever anyone has to say about it, seeking solitude when everyone around wants a little bit of stability, finding her own way of coming out of this instead of asking others how to do it in a way that is less painful.

So now, that I’m in a whole new place that absolutely fits my current state of mind – a room that’s 90% light and 10% freedom, a room where, if you aren’t one already, you most certainly are in the process of becoming an artist. A room in which I will do self work until there will be nothing left to self work on, cry healing tears until there will be none left to cry, a room in which I will exceed my own expectations as a human, as a housemate, as a co-creator, as a woman. A room I am willing to fight for, a room I perfectly fit in, on my own, by myself. A room that makes me feel alive for the first time in years. A room that represents me at the stage of the journey I’m on. A white room that’s absolutely where I’m supposed to be right now.

Being here during these Coronavirus tainted times has already brought out parts of me I had long forgotten about, together with other parts of me I didn’t believe existed. I realized I haven’t done something that really made me happy in a long time and this is how the handmade jeweller in me came out and with him, a three-piece necklace collection I just finished working on.

Every item speaks for itself and for me, too. But for the things they don’t say, I have a few lessons I’ve learned that will take us all back to when and how this passion of mine started, to the beginning of this unique mix that I have yet to become.

 

Truth is I’ve started early and tried a few things along the way, had  more than one artistic attempt at life: mixing up clothes in unusual ways (I remember being in highschool and wearing a pair of yellow jeans and pink, furry boots one day like it was nobody’s business, two colours I’ve never since dared put together in the same outfit), painting or decolorating clothes, pouring acid on jeans, sowing, cutting, restaurating, making my own rings and earrings and necklaces, writing poems and short stories, designing shoes – I’ve always loved having that feeling of palpable completion, of looking at something and just feeling it’s power, feeling it’s value, uniqueness and beauty, something created by my own hands, with no help or the interference of anyone else, something that was my own vision of the world – usually so colorful it hurt the eyes,  something abstract and a little bit strange and shocking and much too eccentric for others to relate to. And yes, I used to mind not having my art understood and my vision reciprocated, but the more I thought about it, the more joy I’d feel knowing I was completely alone in this process, that no one but me could ever take any credit for it.

 

In the end, I learned that didn’t actually need the opinion of the many – and not even that of the few – to know who I was and what I was capable of, I didn’t need to be accepted in certain groups or to fit anywhere. Nor did I want all these things to happen. What I needed to do was to stand – alone – by my vision, improve  and defend it. Yes, I was different and people would often stare at me on the street, on the underground, at the office, because I didn’t actually belong anywhere and neither did my art. But that is what made me strong in the end. The rejection. The judgement. The isolation. This is how I gained the power and freedom to be myself, no matter the consequences.

And, by the way, the muses don’t usually come when you want them to. Oh, no! As a matter of fact, they’re nowhere to be found when you most need inspiration. And then, one moment, bam! you get all the answers you need, all the formulas are there, ready to reveal themselves to you, but they have to find you working. Because if you don’t take advantage of that one moment when the muses are right beside you, if you think “Ah, I might as well just be vigilent, they’ll be here again soon” – you might have to wait for a long time before that happens again. Muses need to find determination, a willingness to go on unexplored territory, passion and freedom of expression. And they will come. They will help you.

I also learned a lot about my doubts and insecurities: I was never sure about anything in my life: the uni I wanted to apply to, the first job I got, than the second and every single job so far, I wasn’t sure whether or not my shoes were eccentric enough, if they were too much or too little for people to want to have a pair, my old writings are still something I am ashamed of, my photos never had that element of “a perfectly captured moment in time”, but whenever I’d sit on the floor, with all those beads and broken chains and sparkly talismans and other perforated things that could be turned into something wonderful all around me, nothing else matters and I become a creator. I get to decide what goes where and why. I get to put things together that wouldn’t normally work. I get to make a whole new world out of nothing. The outcome is not even that important anymore, because I ALREADY KNOW that whatever it is, it’s gonna be noisy and amalgamated and a little insane and eccentric and tasty and ultimately BEAUTIFUL. Because whenever I’d sit on the floor, with all those beads and broken chains and sparkly talismans and other perforated things that could be turned into something wonderful all around me, I am truly happy. That’s my world, my language, my vision, that’s what moves me, that’s where my passion stands it’s ground, that’s when time stops and I find myself as if in trance, bringing something to life, building something new with these old hands of mine. That’s when I don’t give a damn about what people think or want. That’s when I give something back to the world.

 

So…is one’s art really something that needs explaining? Is mine? And what makes the artist – an artist? The recognition? The success? The collaborations? The big bucks? The relatability? The number of sold pieces? I think not. It shouldn’t be. Art is just there, inside the Artist – unique, loud and outrageous, or subtly ironic and contemplative, needing to come out at certain times, in certain ways, make certain points to certain people, bring out certain feelings in certain audiences.

And although I may not be an Artist, this is my Art.

And there’s much more where this came from.

Green Eyed Kisses,