When to Use a Paddle

I am a child of the modern world; when I have a question - any question - I ask Google. "How do I export a file to Final Cut?" "How long do mashed potatoes last unrefrigerated?" "How do I figure out what I love to do?" For some of these questions, Google has helpful things to tell me. For others, not so much.

I was in a meeting a few days ago, helping to curate a local talent showcase. We were discussing our mission statement, and what each of us thought the event could "do" for the city and ourselves. When one of my co-panelists said he intended the event as an exploration, to find out why people make things, my mind started to wander. I was struck by a familiar dull ache - the urge to do something creative, the longing to express myself with something magical, the awareness of how far away I was from actually doing so.

Curating and planning this (vaguely described) talent showcase has given me a lot. I've gained a small sense of purpose (devoting myself to something I believe in), learned how to work with a group as an adult (not half-heartedly like I did in school), and seen that I have something to offer (not to mention met a group of wonderful people). I'm so grateful to have the opportunity. But I'm involved in this event, and then I also work at a large-scale contemporary art gallery and film theatre. Essentially, I spend most of my waking life as a facilitator. I serve as the glue to bring creative things to people, without actually making creative things myself.

For a lot of people, this is not only "enough," it is "great." Great enough to build a life around. And objectively, you can call it whatever you want. I'm much closer to doing what I want in my professional life than I've ever been before. I've also been vigorously studying the concept of acceptance, and trying to practice taking life as it is, rather than fighting it. But I keep getting this niggling feeling that I'm taking the easy route - that I'm meant to do something more, and I'm avoiding it to avoid my anxieties and my existential angst.

So here's what I'm trying to figure out: how does one know when to "accept" the way the stream is carrying you, and when to use a paddle?

I don't have an answer for this yet. I'm fairly sure I'll never get a satisfying one. As much as I value the input of other people, I am increasingly realizing that sometimes you have to just decide things for yourself. When I'm about to die, I'm not going to say to myself, "I'm so glad I never made people angry!!!" or "I'm so glad I got so many people to approve of my life choices, even though I don't particularly care for them!!!" or "I'm so glad my mom never worried about me for any reason!!!" (Love you, Mom.) I've seen people tie themselves into pretzels (myself included) trying to escape a certain feeling or truth or life circumstance rather than dealing with it - either by fighting it in a way it can't be fought, or by "accepting" it by detaching, drinking a lot, and telling all your friends you "don't really care" about it, "no, really," and then getting into a fistfight. (Okay no, I've never done that last one but you get the point.)

What I really know is that I need to start a regular meditation practice, so I'm more aware of why I'm doing things and why I want things. I've been a little wimp about actually scheduling said meditation, so maybe airing this in public will help.

Sketchbook!

One whole sketchbook and eight months since my last sketchbook post, I give you: two Lisbeth Salanders, one to-do list, one Janelle Monae, and one dragon girl. 

These aren't the only drawings I've done, but they're the ones I'm still somewhat satisfied with/think are interesting. I've been painting a little, drawing a little, reading Fables, learning about audio recording, and watching Breaking Bad. That's all, thanks for stopping by!

Depression's an asshole

Hey, so the title of this post is "Depression's an asshole." Because it is. Shit's getting out of hand. I've been fairly depressed all year (realizing for the first time in your life you have no idea what you want to do can trigger that, apparently) but up until recently I could stave off feeling horrible with social interaction. Lately, though, that's stopped working. I'll go out and have a good time at first, but slowly my chest will start to feel tight and heavy, and I will stop having the energy or desire to say anything, and by the end it's difficult to even smile at anyone, let alone participate in a conversation. "Nothing makes us feel more alive than watching someone die." The reverse is also true. Nothing makes you feel more incompetent and miserable than other people happily talking about their accomplishments and endeavors (when you're depressed, and not accomplishing anything.) Then of course you feel guilty about this.

The other night I went out with friends and stayed a single hour before I left, feeling suffocated, to walk the twenty minutes home, then go for a run. Outside. In the snow. At midnight. I haven't "gone for a run" since maybe... June? But walking home I knew it's exactly what I ought to do, and sure enough, I felt fantastic. I didn't even feel cold -- it was strange.

I read something important the other day -- something I used to know and believe, and had since forgotten. I read that sadness is necessary, and important. I've been sad for so long, it's ceased to feel like anything other than A Problem to rid myself of. But I forgot: sadness shows us that what we had mattered to us.

Remembering this has helped me to be less afraid of my feelings, and less critical. When I feel sad or inadequate or "not myself" I get the overwhelming urge to curl up in a cave until it passes. I don't usually reach out to people or even admit that I'm feeling low. It might be a pride thing, and a dislike of being vulnerable, and a wish to be seen by everyone as "someone who doesn't need your help." Deep down I want to be that person you go to when you're feeling down, but I don't ever want to be on the other end.

But I'm trying to break myself of it, because apparently it's okay. So this is me talking about what's actually going on, and I might want to get coffee with some of you, and I might ask you to listen to me vent a bit. For now, this is an update on what's going on. I'm kind of wondering what I'm going to do with this blog if I do start wanting to put art on it again....

Why I wanted to do anything in the first place

So this might sound strange, but I've been thinking a lot about the most basic, underlying reasons behind why I want to do things.

For instance, I thought I wanted to be an artist, but why? What did I want to do with art? When I really get down to it, a lot of times things like "art" or "writing" seem like means to an end for me. I think what drives me so crazy when I hear artists talking endlessly about their "process" is that I usually don't enjoy my own process. And I've done plenty of little exercises and told myself this and that to find out if I *could* possibly enjoy the process, but should I really do something I have to force myself to enjoy?

I don't "love making art." I don't "love writing." If I did, I'd be doing both of those things all the time. Wouldn't I? I like doing little things within those mediums (creating characters, using a tiny brush to paint the pink edge of an eye, etc) but not "making art" or "playing with language" on the whole.

Part of what worries me about this is, like most everyone else, I want to be significant. I want to contribute something valuable to my field, and I don't think I can do that if I have no interest in most of what these fields entail.

I was thinking last night about what I do actually find value in -- why I like the art I like, the stories, etc -- and a lot of it has to do with a feeling of connection and understanding. This isn't some silly "I want everyone to link hands and sing and then there will be no more war," this is me wanting to do what so many pieces of art, writing, and music have done for me: connect with someone I don't know, and let them know they're not alone. That, more than anything else in this world, is what I want to do. Someone told me this was the wrong way to go about things -- and I see their point. But I keep coming back to it over and over again, because it's not just a thought, it's this gut-level feeling that no amount of logic or argument seems to chip away at. I don't care if it sounds childish or naive.

The thing is, if I were to say that in a circle of "fine" artists, I think I would be laughed out of the room. And truly, I don't know if you can make an interesting piece of fine art with that desire as the impetus. At that point I'm not even interested in the "fine art" part, the "fine art" is like the skin or vehicle I'm using to deliver the real core to an audience. I don't know if any truly influential, memorable fine artist started making artwork simply because they wanted to help people feel less alone. I'm pretty sure truly great artists become artists because they want to... make art.

So I guess the question now is... if I'm going to be driven by this desire no matter what I do, what should I... do? I've wondered about being a therapist (directly helping people sort themselves out), but 1) don't want to go back to school, 2) don't want to fall further into debt, and 3) worry I would end up burned out before the first year was up. I've wondered about being a stand-up comedian, but I worry that humor would be ruined for me once it became my job -- and right now it's the best escape I have when things get stressful.

I don't know. I've been trying hard not to take my bitterness and confusion out on the people close to me, but it seems to be getting more and more difficult. So not only am I totally confused about what to do, but I feel guilty all the time for getting jealous, getting frustrated, being depressed and wet-blanket-like, etc. I just want to figure this out and feel like a whole person again.

No idea what I'm doing

So, as of right now, I have no idea what I'm doing. I have a lot of ideas, and a lot of things I am "kind of" interested in, but I don't know if I'm interested enough to pursue them. When I graduated this past May, I had all sorts of plans for art installations and paintings, but whenever I'd think about making artwork on a regular basis I'd freeze up and nothing would get done. For a long time I thought I was afraid of failure, but now I realize that I am mostly afraid of success. My artwork wasn't incredible, but when I imagined what would happen if my artistic career got rolling... I realized it would mean me producing a lot of artwork, constantly, and I barely scraped up the motivation to do the few projects I did this year. Perhaps, my brain started to suggest, you don't enjoy making artwork enough to pursue it as a career. And anything could happen in the next few decades, but right now I think that's true. That I don't enjoy making artwork enough, and rather than spending all my energy trying to force myself to enjoy it, perhaps I should explore other things.

The problem is, I'm afraid that there is nothing out there I'm going to enjoy. I'm afraid to explore other things because if I leave some stones unturned, there are still all kinds of possibilities -- I can calm myself by saying, "Hey, you never know, you could turn out to be a genius writer. Or filmmaker. Or violinist." But once I delve into those subjects and really try, that comfort is going to disappear. Because everyone (or almost everyone) sucks at a new thing when they first start doing it. As Ira Glass said (and I paraphrase), you get into artistic pursuits because you have good taste, and that good taste is also what can really depress you at the start -- because you're aware of how bad you are. Hopefully I'll find something I like doing so much that I don't care whether or not I'm bad at it.

On that note, this is a blog about my artistic pursuits, so here are the things I am working on/thinking about right now: slowly working on creating an episode of a radio show with a friend, learning more about voice acting, writing little snippets of unrelated scenes and characters here and there, sketching some characters, and taking and editing some photos for a friend.

Now that I've talked about the present, I think I should (finally) write a record of the past. I was planning on writing a post a long time ago about SiTE:Lab, but now I think it may be a good idea to summarize everything up until now. I'll leave out a lot, but I think it may be helpful for me. Watch this space, we'll see if I actually do it.

Poetry I found on my hard drive

Someone's singing rhymes in your kitchen, like blue-patterned wallpaper, shutters open, wind easing through. There's a snap and crackle from a pan of oil -- red peppers, green. Don't make an omelette, you remember suggesting; you always feel sick after those, but you distinctly smell egg-fumes, and you love him, you do, but perhaps you should spell things out more clearly. Here is a tape of the morning's activities. Here is a breakdown of yesterday's half-conversation, when your mouth was full of toothpaste and he stood behind you, watching your eyes. It's hard to quell your paranoia when things keep niggling, rising up out of the sand like obelisks, fossils, and maybe it's the Aztecs or maybe God put them there to trick us. Obelisks like idols. So will you find razor blades in your omelette this morning? Yes? You hope not, you really hope not, but when an individual is caged and harassed enough, who knows what they're capable of. Now here is the cool stair underneath your forehead, your vein throbbing beats against the wood, the dust. Now here is your breath in your nose, your throat, your lungs, your teeth, your tonsils. Now here you are, and you see in your mind he's made of panes of glass, and each slab renders your face in perfect detail, shiny bright. You know that's what he is, you know, but what is the creature that wears this suit? There's a thing underneath and you can't even tell what shape it is.

From the kitchen he whistles, sing-song, come and get it. You do, and you try to smile but that mirror is there with your fragmented face, over and over like a fractal, a poisonous fern, and suddenly you don't feel like eating, you feel like closing your eyes, like howling, like sinking slowly into a saucer of milk on the chair -- for him, you say. Pull this book out, this cookbook, and it lists all the things you should sink into: milk; egg; vodka, though it stings; apple juice; the broth of a turkey with bits of meat left over; heavy cream; blood; and the thick spongy batter of brownies ready to bake. You're ready, you tell him, and spit flies everywhere. You're lying on the table with the light trained on you, and suddenly he's not a mirror and his brow is furrowed. You could have sworn, you could have -- but there is his face, and there are his lips, and there is the point of his nose, and the dip of his chin. It's now that you notice the clouds of smog circling like hungry-taloned birds. Why did you just... you didn't unfold this scene correctly, did you. Did you, did you? Another ripped map in the glove compartment. Here he is with questions, and what do you say to them, really? You didn't mean it.

Then what do you mean?

This month's sketchbook

So my goal of writing one blog post a week seems to have proved a little bit much - once every two weeks might be a more realistic goal. As I apparently famously say, "I meant to, but... I didn't."

Here are some sketches from this past month. I haven't done much lately, as I got distracted with SiteLab (will post about that soon, but wanted to get sketchbook out first) and trying to find another part-time job, so most of these are from the beginning of the month.

"Robert Fucking Frost, man. He's like...."

Edible stars.

This is a sketch of a dream I had - I was sitting in my car while the Devil (who I don't believe in) was trying to get in. I knew the automatic locks would start to malfunction (because this was a dream, and I was half-aware of it), and sure enough, they did. Once he'd sat down in the passenger seat, I couldn't unlock my own door to get out. It was actually pretty terrifying, and I remember the feeling of being trapped and knowing the way out was maddeningly simple, but inaccessible. The drawing doesn't necessarily capture that feeling - it was much more about how huge and meaty the dude looked.

This is actually drawn in Vince's sketchbook, and I made sure to get a picture because I feel as though every time I draw in his sketchbook it turns out much more pretentious than something I would ever draw in my own sketchbook - with lines of Richard Siken poems all over it, etc. I don't know why this is.

Experimenting with quickly sketching something in with marker rather than pencil, and then refining things little by little. At first this looked like an incoherent scribble - I was surprised to see how accurate it turned out to be for how quick and mindless the initial process was.

Experimenting with shapes on people's faces. I thought it was going to become a "thing" for the next few sketches, but it did not. I left it here.

Every now and again I feel the urge to draw subject matter from high school. It signals a sort of creative step backwards to compose myself, either after extending myself too far or after a dry spell. I think I was listening to a lot of Fall Out Boy and Panic! At the Disco the week this was drawn.

I draw a LOT of people with massive noses looking glumly at the floor.

That's all for now - hopefully I'm going to be posting another post soon. I have a lot to post, actually, it's just a matter of finding the time.