This article is for those of us who are perpetually hungry. Not those who tearfully bow before a Cheez-It box as drool snakes from the back of the throat and slithers down the grocery store aisles. Not those who wait until the other members of the house have gone to bed to tip-toe to the fridge as if there are camouflage grenades scattered over the pathway. No. This article is for those of us who have hungry souls and minds. Those of us who crave inspiration, depend on the nourishment of creativity, and beg for the taste of sweet artistic fulfillment. Yes, this article is for us artists. We are perpetually hungry.

The Beginning of Fame High School

When I was initially accepted to my city's performing and visual arts magnet high school (often compared to the school in "Fame") a plethora of adults, children and peers asked me one question, "Why do you want to be an artist?" I was angry. I didn't know! I just knew that I was drawn to art. When I was onstage or writing, I felt at home and celebrated. I felt important. Yet the question always was asked.

Why do you want to be an artist?

The question was coated in judgment. It reeked of disbelief and uneasiness that I wanted to pursue art. To the people who questioned my hunger to be a professional dancer and writer, my dream seemed unpractical. These inquiring people had non-art-oriented jobs in field such as law, medicine and business. They weren't immune to the arts education I was now accepted to receive and, therefore, they called upon the classic examples of starving artists to justify their argument that no matter how talented one is in the arts, to go to school in such a field would never secure you financially. Without even setting foot onto my arts school's campus, I already knew that being an artist, specifically a writer and dancer, was what I had been made to be. My heart swelled in anger whenever I was lectured by someone to consider going to one of the more academically focused high schools, but changing their minds wasted my energy. It would not bring them any closer to understanding how I, or any of my future high school classmates and teachers, felt about the arts. Asking someone how it feels to create art is like asking what the color orange looks like to them. Every artist's feeling is unique and only one thing remains the same: you have an inviolable will to create.

Throughout my four years at the arts school, that same question haunted my brain. It leaped and swam and creeped throughout my body every time I wasn't successful in my art forms. Sometimes, I would believe people when they advised me to seek out more secure fields like their own. Yet, after so many performances, so many teachers inspiring me through artistic instruction and so many people willing to support us as striving artists, I found it impossible to leave that school. We all celebrated each other's personal style in our art forms and every person was so eager to collaborate. It made our shows, gigs, and work interesting. It made other people realize that art was worth supporting. The question seemed unworthy of an answer. I would dismiss it by saying, "Well, if someone doesn't understand how essential art is to a society and how important is that that society has people to create it, then they won't understand any of my defenses." That was my solution: to refuse the question completely.

So as graduation approached and people excitedly asked about my major, I was again faced the same question. Upon announcing my decision to study creative writing, people's faces would droop into a less excited and more confused expression. They'd respond, "Wow, why are you doing that?" It poked at my memories of feeling isolated and upset when so many people had asked me about my decision to attend the arts school. Now I prepare to go to college and I can feel that same question, that implied proposal of going for a more practical major, sneak into my head again. This time, though, I don't want to have it swim around me like a shark about to attack. I don't want to sit in the cold water as my shaking body creates ripples around me when the shark becomes nearer. I want to dive deep into the belly of the water, look the shark in the eyes, and give the answer.

So this is dedicated to artists and this is directed at those who have ever asked someone, "Why are you an artist?"

We are the images of passion.I imagine what it must've felt like when the first human looked at his beautiful new world. When he stood on his two feet and pressed his flesh against the hot ground, extended his arms to the chilled breeze, and felt the warm sun crawl all over his skin, I imagine he could see, feel, hear and touch the beauty around him. I picture him with glimmering eyes and a wide smile as he noticed every detail: the small green stripe on a flower's stem, the uneven feeling of a tree's thick bark, and the different notes in a bird's mellifluous song. I imagine that is how us artists feel every time we create. We have a burning hunger to pull out the beauty of the world and depict it through creation.

We are unlimited. The world was our invitation to create. We saw what was before us: the injustices, the zeniths, the happiness and sadness and the tragedy. We realized that art could unite people by inspiring them and reminding them that they were not alone. Lastly, we decided it was our obligation to enter the enigma of the human heart and unite people through our creations. There is an army of artists stationed throughout the world and each one of us contributes a different voice. Art is a well eternally full of water, and with every taste, your tastebuds respond differently.

Art defines. Art is the most explicit way for a society to define itself and for an artist to define himself. We as creators remain untamed servants to society; we create to give our society a personality. Art gnaws at souls and burrows under one's skin; with art, there is no race or gender. We are one with art because it reflects who we are as people and as a society. There is no greater feeling than relation. We relate with art.

We are eternally present. The inevitable will heavily fall upon us. One day, we will burn out, but our creations will live forever. They will not bow down to death or sway in the winds of illness. They will roll through time and generations. Our voices will still boom in the hearts of those inspired by our work and we will be immortalized in libraries and museums, on screens and on stages. Our art will endure when we no longer can.

Art unites. Art is an iron chain filled with the contributions of artists from the beginning of time. As we create, we becomes one link in the far-reaching chain. We join an army of those who felt the need to protect the beauty in the world as well as stir people to think, question, and act differently. Our creations are meant to tell people, "you are not alone." We as artists are hungry to unite people into a collective state of mind. When politics and tragedy divide, we feel obligated to create art that will provoke people to respond, think, and be inspired.

Art is necessary. I was part of a project in Dallas with several French artists, one of whom had never been to America until the project. We were sitting around a table discussing our plans as an artist, when we trekked onto the infamous question: Why are you an artist? Both myself and the French artist replied with the exact same answer, "Because without art, I would not be me." Even from two different continents, we still had the same response. I figure that the easiest way to answer that worry-some question we've all been asked so many times about why we choose to study art is that we just need it to feel like we are important. It's our way of living. We are the hungry ones who seek out the fulfillment of art just to feel alive. Art is our food. Art is our way of survival.