Art has been a part of my life since almost the very beginning. My earliest memory of me doing something creative goes all the way back to age 3

And of course, the classic paper and pen/pencil. As long as I had those on hand, I was going to be entertained. Any blank space was covered in doodles, including school papers. It was just random creative expressions.

I never had a particular style or medium. I wanted to try my hand in everything and be good at it. If I found something that tickled my creative fancy, I would often hyper-focus on it. I would get pretty good at almost anything I dabbled in, but more often than not, I would also burn myself out on it. So I would add new skills to my repertoire but never make an actual practice out of anything.

The one thing that would stay consistent is drawing and sketching. I wouldn't consider it a practice though because I never found a consistent style of subject. It was mostly just random figures, and my concentration was always on making it look as realistic as possible. I was able to to get pretty damn good at that, but again, it never turned into an actual practice. In the end, it never brought me a true sense of fulfillment. Nothing specific ever did.

That is why I couldn't bring myself to call myself an artist. All of these creative and artistic skills I acquired, and a lot I got really good at, but never anything that I ever cared to pursue as a steady practice. An artist without direction.

So much of my work ended up in the trash; besides the process of creating and seeing my improvements, I didn't see much more value in my work for very long after I was finished with it.

Nothing I made really ever felt good enough, I always felt like I could do a better job. I could make it more realistic, more flawless, cleaner, better designed, etc. I would work on something to the point of hating to work on it. I spent so much time on trying to make it “perfect” that I would stop finding the process of creating enjoyable, and in the end, it would still not feel like it was good enough, that I could have done a better job. Even when others would tell me they loved my work, I just couldn't get past what I felt about it.

There is only so much the joy of creating and making can motivate when it is constantly followed by disappointment, self-doubt, not-good-enough-ness, and so many other terrible feelings. If I can't like what I create, how can I possibly believe anyone when they tell me that they do? I wanted to make things that others loved, but how could they if I’m constantly disappointing myself?

If I was an artist, then I was a failure of an artist.

It got to the point where I didn't want to “waste” my art supplies on making shitty art. So I started collecting it instead. I loved the idea of using my supplies I just never actually did. Full sets of pencils, colored pencils, markers, paints, papers, etc. So many wonderful supplies lost to time because I was afraid to waste them making crap. So instead I wasted them by doing nothing.

This mentality lasted a long time, well into adulthood. It's just been very recent, within the last year, that I've made some great strides in discovering and maintaining my joy in my art practice.

I've gone through LOADS of ebony pencils, quite a few markers, canvases, and I've even framed a few works of mine to give as gifts. To be in love with the works that comes out of me now feels amazing. It has been the most liberating experience of my artistic existence.

And to think that it all started with my magic sketch book.

I remember going across the hall to our neighbor’s house, a lady that was my Oma's age, and she showed me how to trace the models out of the fashion magazines she had. At the age of around 6, I remember periodically watching this glassblower that lived in our village work in his basement studio; these are core memories.

I can still remember sitting at the neighbor’s kitchen table. I remember the loose-leaf paper she gave me (it might have actually been parchment paper), and I remember the excitement I felt. I remember using what she taught me as soon as I was at home, too. She started helping me lay the foundation, I suppose.

From that point on, my hands never stopped drawing, building, crafting, tinkering... I was always making something. Anything could become my medium.

I don't remember how I started watching the glassblower, but I definitely still remember the feeling I would get in my stomach and chest when he would let me watch him work; I still get the echo of that feeling when I remember young Vicky watching him work. The way this felt is branded in me.

As a young child, I played outside a lot, so sticks, grass, mud, sand, they were all fair game. I'd make little houses, a witch’s kitchen, and whatever else would come to mind. My imagination had no limits back then. My Oma's headscarves were turned into dolls with strategically placed rubber-bands that I found rummaging through her kitchen. Another habit of mine, always hunting for interesting things.