One bright star, no more, no less

Three wise camels, no GPS

Now I Will Try Your Patience

I've been feeling a little guilty that this blog is really my attempt at a journal, but I always rationalized that no one is being forced to read it--and no one does. Okay, I just checked out the "Blogs of Note" on the Blogspot site--I feel guilty no more. Lots of crazy stuff out there.

SPOILER ALERT: I am going back to the journal, nothing interesting from here on out.

So, back to art. I have recently realized that I am hiding something. It is hiding so deep that even I didn't know it was there until I recognized it recently. From birth (okay maybe five) to college, I wanted to be an artist. I looked at everything in life through this lens of art. Tried to make sense of things through art. Gave my life worth through art. It was my religion.

Then I made the decision to go to college and not art school. I was scared. I had no confidence that I would make it as an artist and I was interested in lots of things, I was a good student, I was lucky enough to have the choice. So I went to college. I took art courses but they were not inspiring. So I took art history courses which I loved. But there was something killing about art history courses for me. It is like standing on top of a mountain and realizing what an insignificant speck you are. Except, that what is a humbling experience in one situation (mountain), in another situation can just erode any confidence that ever existed (and wasn't nearly enough to begin with). Tragic, right?

I think maybe this is why I am able to write with abandon, despite my shortcomings. I was not a great reader as a kid (see previous entry) and though I now read loads, any of the books popular when I was a teen are missing from my personal inventory. I don't have that weight on my back.

Art ran a ground somewhere as far as I was concerned. After conceptual art (remember: "I had an artistic thought today."?) and the Colorfields, I was left cold. I loved the thoughts behind these pieces, and I still love discussing and defending why something should be in a museum. But art was becoming a physical expression of a philosophical thought and the thrill of actually doing art was forgotten. It seemed in the big picture that made me small time. I don't think I ever saw myself as a philosopher. I like the feel of paint, the touch of pen to paper, the peeling off of a print from the press. There is something tactile in art that is so sexy. Is that the right word? I am not sure that is exactly what I mean but I do get a quivery feeling in my gut when I think about these things.

What I have realized is that I have closed off this part of myself, strangled it. I let it gasp air every once in a while in a very controlled way. I have failed in so many ways, but I think what hurts is that it's not a matter of bravery, I think I would have failed in art no matter what.

Of course, I can still make art and I can still go to the art museum. When I do, I sometimes get this feeling of love. That is the right word. And I wonder what it is a love for. Is it love of art or a love for an earlier version of myself. Or is it the feeling that people get when they find their true religion. It's not a choice, it's just there, making the world feel complete and good and that there are infinite possibilities. Making you feel like you would like to be worthy, but aren't--yet. Like you would like to feel this way all the time but don't. A fleeting, foggy glimpse of heaven.

I was asked once at a party what my books were about. I had to think because I had never really thought about my work as a whole like that. But I did find a common thread: The power of art (whatever art you choose) to overcome. That is broad and all encompassing I suppose, but I really do think that if teenagers can find a medium to express themselves, if they can put their creative juices to work in some way it can help them through. Of course, I don't think that is only true for teenagers, but so many adults are fixed in their ways and weighed down by responsiblity. The ones who do come to art (again the broad sense of art) later are always very interesting people, though.

Wow, there were points when I almost stopped writing this to cry, but I am glad I made it to a more positive note to end on.

View from Above

Writing has come as a surprise creative outlet for me. Going to conferences or reading authors writing about themselves, I realize that I should have been an avid, bookworm all my life, always scribbling down stories, keeping a journal etc. I should have certain books that "saved my life." I should be someone who is meticulous about grammar and spelling--feeling outraged and bothered by the mistakes I see in print. I might even go so far as to correct people who say "good" when "well" is appropriate. I am none of these things.

I was not a great reader. I loved picture books--still love picture books--but more for the pictures. As a teen, I had trouble getting into novels. If it didn't grab me right away, I tended to put it down. I rarely finished books, even for important things like book reports. I am still an abysmal proofreader. I have only a vague idea of when to use a comma. Don't get me started on the semi colon--is it ever appropriate? I am okay with periods--most the time. My spelling is largely phonetic until Spellcheck gets a hold of my work. I don't even see mistakes in print--even when it is pointed out to me. Doesn't bother me a bit. I sometimes wistfully imagine what it must have been like to live in Chaucer's time when (it seems to me) rules of language were more malleable.

Yet I write. Am compelled to write. It is a bit crazy to face this struggle day after day. Even if I were to sell my work the only real benefit that I can expect is to be sharing it with readers. I don't expect to support myself from my labors in writing. I know enough writers, have heard enough to know that if it isn't total fantasy it is a long way off. In the mean time labor that does pay competes for my time.

I tried to quit once. It didn't work, but it had a good effect. This may sound strange but it is kind of like the guy in A Clockwork Orange after he jumps out the window. Once you have survived the worst-in his case suicide, mine quitting-nothing matters anymore. It released me from the peer pressure that publishing is the only measure of how whether what I do is worthwhile and the need to devote chunks of time selling instead of writing. Time I don't have. Did I miss the whole point of A Clockwork Orange? It's possible. I just remember him going back to his old ways after jumping out the window. I have never been able to watch that movie a second time and it was a long time ago. I apologize to all those cult fans of the movie, if I somehow took away a skewed, or trivial idea. The point is quitting freed me. Everything, all the time I eked out to write, was a gift.

Actually this blog was going to be about art not writing. Oh well. Next time. I guess I needed confess first. Though I allow myself to write I still need to justify it partly because my first impulse when I could hold a pencil was not to write a story it was to draw. That is where this was supposed to be going but I won't tax your patience.