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.

Recently, I dreamt I was walking home in my childhood neighborhood in the dark. Here and there other people were walking to their respective homes too, maybe coming back from the bars. I wasn't terrified, but I was anxious, and kept a knife out in front of me for the entire duration of the walk. Only after reflecting upon the dream later did I realize that everyone else had been walking in pairs or in groups - I'd been the only person walking all alone.

Boo hoo, whine whine. This is what everyone experiences. There's nothing special about feeling alone, because everyone feels that way, at least from time to time. It's dangerous to be ignorant of that, to believe that your loneliness makes you unique, or indicates intellectual or spiritual superiority on your part. That said, when you grew up in an environment that didn't suit you, around people you had a hard time relating to, it's not difficult to see how you could form a habit of telling yourself that you are too special to be properly understood or appreciated, as way of consoling yourself and staying sane. That habit may just stop serving you and become an encumbrance.

Last night the conversation briefly touched on a pessimistic related subject - that phenomenon of looking up from your carefully constructed circle of friends and associates to realize you had forgotten there was a circle, and that it had required construction. This happens in all kinds of places - churches, dude bro bars, monster truck rallies - but every time it does it can be a bit of a shock to the system. Perhaps both my friend and I are still fairly naive and idealistic about "people" as a concept, but personally, I like to believe the best of human beings. I like to be able to say to angry atheists, "Hey guys, calm down. I'm sure most Christians really aren't that judgmental and full of hate." I like to be able to say to frustrated artists, "No need to scoff at 'the public,' I think most people are much more cultured and intelligent than you think they are." But when I am whisked out of that carefully constructed circle for a moment, I start to realize these things I say are not true. What I grow used to seeing as a majority - my majority - is actually no such thing. It is dwarfed by the true majority of people who trample each other to death at Walmart, and cuss out single mothers working the McDonalds' drive-thru because she forgot their fucking shamrock shake.

You wanted cheer, not snobbery? I won't apologize. You know it's true.

On a positive note, this means that in the past five years I've succeeded in getting to know a great number of people I admire and appreciate. The occasional shock to the system only reminds me to be grateful.

Sketchbook!

For the longest time I kept saying, "I really should keep a sketchbook," but every time I tried to start one I'd draw a sketch or two, not be satisfied, and then forget all about it. This year, though, thanks to the king of Etsy and the combination of whiskey&cokes and free popcorn, I've already finished one sketchbook and started another one! My drawing muscles still have that "pins and needles" thing going on after so much time spent unused, but I'm learning to draw ugly, draw fast, and draw weird. Hopefully things will just get uglier and faster and weirder from here.


My favorite sketches I'm still unsure about posting - when it comes to explicitly sexual stuff, I'm never sure where the division is between "ballsy fine art" and "wildly unprofessional bad moves." I'll think about it. Probably post it at some point. Anyway. 


All of these were done with brush-tip markers, which I've never had before but love, so much.

The first time I was badgered into "drawing ugly." Really like this one. Drawing it felt like being pushed into the pool after whining about not being able to swim - you need someone to do that, sometimes. 

A sad Japanese man, and a diplomat's son (or is that Gatsby?)

Crabwalk.

Trying to draw even uglier, because apparently my earlier ugly wasn't quite there. Is that you, Ronald Reagan?

That's all for now. Have a good week, everyone! Do something crazy for me.

Looks like I'm starting a blog

I've been meaning to get a blog for a really long time now, so here it is. I'll be posting pictures (and maybe descriptions) of my artistic output, which will hopefully flow out of me in chunks once I get this website going. Excited? Excited for the chunks? I know I am. 

On the subject of output, a month or two ago I bought my very first camera, a Canon Rebel XT, and we have become super close buddies. I got a few snerks from photographer friends ("It cost less than a thousand dollars!" "The lens isn't powerful enough to zoom in on moon rocks!" etc), but it does what I bought it to do, which is take pictures, and I love it. 

I have a decent amount of experience in Photoshop - I used to do a lot of digital painting and drawing, and I edited some photos very poorly based on tutorials while wondering what on earth "soft light" meant as a layer property. I'm not really interested in taking pictures that are senior portrait-esque, crystal clear, sparkly - you know, like of babies in a fountain and you can see all the water droplets.... It's cool when well done, but my painting background has me wanting to paint with a camera. If that means distorting photos, editing the everloving crap out of them, etc, I guess that's what that means. I've had fun so far, I'm excited to take more.

Here's one: