I think of art as magic; I can bring something to life that doesn’t exist yet.
I GREW UP ON THE SEA; my mom worked on ships and homeschooled me, and we traveled for most of my childhood, hopping between boats, a small farm, and everywhere from Texas, to New York, to Pennsylvania. My self-identity grew from a restless mixture of air and water instead of roots. I found who I was in movement and imagination and solitude and wild places, a combination that has both served and challenged me. Now I see that this is where my artwork stems from—discovering who I am, and who I want to be, as a woman in the wild. I hope everyone who connects with my art can be moved by that wild woman in some way, as I often am, as she reminds me to create boldly, explore bravely, and live fiercely.
There was no single “moment” that caused me to suddenly identify as an artist. Truthfully, there are times when I still don’t feel like one. I had to force-feed myself the idea. The statement “I am an artist” starts as a whisper, a half-truth you mutter under your breath, glancing out of the corners of your eyes, hoping no one finds out you’re a fraud. This identity grows slowly, often painfully, until one day when a stranger asks you, “What do you do?” you say, “I am an artist.” You feel proud. You are an artist! And then you go home and overanalyze those words for the next week.
I think of art as magic; I can bring something to life that doesn’t exist yet. Isn’t that wild? It doesn’t just involve putting a brush or pen to paper. It’s also this full, sometimes-messy experience of gathering inspiration and ideas, letting them brew in my mind for a while, and then one day, somehow, letting all that spill into a singular idea, painting, collage, drawing.
I am pulled to representing the female form because I like to think every woman I draw is in some way me, or a future me—strong, independent, resourceful, in-the-moment, brave—and hope women viewers will see themselves in the works as well.
AMANDA SANDLIN
