claire luft

My relationship with art × ×

I had quite the imagination as a kid. I'd play pretend with whatever I could get my hands on—rocket ships made out of paperclips, intricate drum sets made out of pots and pans from my parents' ransacked kitchen cabinets, fairytale maps made tangible from from my basement layout, uncharted lands for my hero and their steed generated from my stairway bannister; I'd occupy myself for hours, painting worlds and writing paracosm tales of my own design.

I like to think the constant daydreaming was a sort of overflow of imagination that I didn't know what to do with yet. At that age, a kid doesn't know much about the world besides the stories they've been told. On that note, a foundational and prevalent story for me was Pokémon. I assume after the extreme disappointment of finding out our cats weren't capable of being a talking Meowth or telekinetic fighter may be what triggered my younger self to wish on stars often asking that Pokémon were real. Unfortunately, my wish was not granted. Due to this, I had to find other ways to bring Pokémon to life. I think one of the best ways I could go about this was by drawing them—quite frequently. It was something tangible, you know? Drawing was creation for me; something I could fully own, hold, and spend time with. I believe this is where art and I first became acquaintances.

Around twelve, I began my reign of financial terror: drawing as a more serious hobby with my packs of Copic markers and colored pencils. I opted into art classes in middle school and high school where I discovered I was quite decent at realism (big upgrade from my previous anime characters and cartoon animals). I began to feel accomplishment with art, and my connection to the world of it grew into something solid; however, it was still much of a hobby instead of a talent I thought about pursuing. This is also when I started an online blog about some hobbies I had at the time, and it was my first confrontation with graphic design. I taught myself how to make enticing visuals, cover photos, and layouts that aimed to grab and hold the attention of my readers. It worked pretty well actually. It was originally just a way to look more professional or mature than I actually was, but the act of making them became a hobby in and of itself.

I had a lot of friends in marketing classes in high school so, unsurprisingly, I followed suit. This was also a field of study I found I had a bit of a knack for. There's a certain logic to marketing that I think my brain can understand better than, say, other subjects. I remember in my senior year having my art class third hour and my school store class fourth—going from my safe space one hour and helping run a functioning store the next; it was a good combo.

Leaving high school and entering college, I had the simple information that I like marketing, I love art, and creating is my kinetic energy. I think somewhere between those blurred lines I found art direction (and graphic design).

College rolled forward as I learned about the in's and out's of the advertising industry, advanced marketing tactics, and my toxic love-hate relationship with Adobe Creative Cloud (and its ten or so split-personalities). I enjoyed the people, the act of developing an advertisement, and the environment; I liked the ability to let the tactical part of my brain roam in order to make campaigns that would resonate with modern society—laughing about dumb ideas with friends and feeling accomplishment with the good ones. Graphic design made me feel like I'm using my art to further develop the world's beauty, and create work that makes people happy.

On the other hand, I did start to feel a bit behind on the development of my art skills. I'd taken a few definitive art classes in the second half of college, and I realized I wasn't making work I was proud of. I simply drew what I set out to draw with the skills I had, but there wasn't much direction to it other than that. I was lacking an art style for sure, but more so, I was lacking in a narrowed-down direction on what the work I put into the world should be like. Right after college, I made an effort to reconnect with my creativity in ways that weren't directly for work projects. I thought heavily about what artistic elements I like best; I tried new techniques, new textures, new color palettes, etc. My art improved, I liked it better, and I felt more confident in my work. These new feelings and ideas also seemed to improve my ability to develop professional work, as well. I'm better able to pinpoint and focus in on what visuals I see fit, then execute them more precisely. I feel better about my work—I think I managed to heal something that was damaged a bit. I have a place in this world of creatives, and I just need to find where and who I fit with.