If you could say it in words,
there would be no reason to paint.
I've been more of a facilitator of art than an an artist, I know. And when I get positive feedback about my facilitation, it feels more natural to accept. But when I get positive feedback about my art, I have a hard time really believing it and accepting it.
Most of the time, the reason I paint is to get my internal angst and tumult out of me. Believe it or not, I have a ton of it. Feelings that are hard to express in words ... not that I don't try to do so ... as my friends will attest. I do talk and let as much out to those closest to me. But even with that, there are feelings that at times ache to be expressed through paint. And when they do, when I allow myself the time and space to do so and I have music that is meant to be listened to as I do this, I feel most alive and the release is quite wonderful. As Denise Sharp puts it in her story, art in many ways is nothing short of vital. Indeed, it is my life line (especially these days) and key to survival.
What I feel can be whispered. It can be shouted. It can be screamed. Then whipered again.