One Way Street
DISCLAIMER I'm not sure if it is necessary for me to state this more clearly, but I think people might be thinking that the rejection to which I am referring in the first paragraph is the dismissal of my drawing that I refer to in my fourth paragraph. This is not the case at all. I am referring to good old-fashioned romantic rejection. I could have talked about it more since it was the first in the series of events that led to this entry, but I did not want to harp on it publically, because I did not wish to sound like I was angry with the person who rejected me. Frankly I think even using the word rejection casts her in a bit of an antagonistic light, absolutely contrary to what I think of her, but I can't think of a better word. Anyway the thing with the drawing is minor. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Anyway without further ado etc. etc. the entry:
Sometimes when I am not sure what to do with my life I take little journeys. Today was such a day. I have been feeling very good about myself lately. I am starting to get in better shape, my art is going phenomenally well, and I have a very concrete long-term goal for my career, even if short-term opportunities are looking a little anemic. Despite all this I have recently received a rejection, of sorts. I don't blame anyone for it, least of all the person who rejected me, as indeed it barely qualifies as a rejection. Just a... lack of reciprocation. In any case, I don't wish to brood on this, but rather to make the point that despite feeling very very good about who I am as a person right now I am more than ever before frustrated with my lack of ability to make meaningful connections with other people. So I took a small journey.
Thinking I had been cooped up in my studio working with "ideas" and "executions" a bit too much lately, I decided I needed to do some observational drawing, so I set out to ride the rails and find inspiration among the people and places of Boston's subway system, as is my wont. I set out for nowhere in particular, and soon found an interesting and pleasantly unaware subject to draw on my trip into the city. She was not, I would say, traditionally beautiful, but she reminded me of someone I know and like, and was engaged in the most conspicuously unglamorous act imaginable, which is eating a slice of pizza with black olives and pepperoni. I watched her, feeling absurdly voyeuristic as she bit, chew, glanced around, wiped her mouth, etc. never seeming to notice that she was the object of my gaze. (I find the relationship between the word "subject" as it implies a person being depicted in artwork and the word "subject" as it implies the protagonist or main actor in a narrative fascinating - aren't they exactly opposite? Isn't the subject of a painting subservient to the painter and really more of an object, and isn't the subject of a narrative subservient to no one but his or herself?) In any case I soon grew too self-conscious even to continue this drawing, as more people were piling onto the car, so I took to drawing things around me. But even then I was held under the gaze of an uninvited audience. I wanted to yell at them - Well, if you find my work so interesting, why don't you talk to me as a person instead of gazing at me from afar? I am aware of the irony of this - that I would accuse them of voyeurism when I was caught in the act of drawing an unsuspecting passenger - but at least I was actively observing, and making no attempts to conceal my observation. Such is the role of the artist - to enact consciously what others only rehearse unwittingly.
In any case, I meandered about on the rails for a time, and eventually grew hungry. I decided (proximity was a major factor) to set myself free in Chinatown and enjoy a cheap, simple bowl of pho. This was the best decision I have made in some time. It was delicious. I sat, or was sat, next to a large glass fish tank set into a partition. Across the room was a small girl, about two or three, sitting with an odd group. On one side of the table sat two men, one Asian and one White. On the girl's side sat the girl, an older boy, and a middle-aged woman. The two children were Asian, or perhaps half-Asian. The older woman was white, and could have been their mother, but seemed a bit too old for it. In any case at some point the girl dragged her possible mother over to the fish tank (that is, over to my table), but the woman pulled her away, saying something like "he just wants to eat his dinner." I tried to tell her (the girl, or maybe them) that it was fine, that they could look at the fish, and that I wasn't bothered, but they were gone. Later the girl managed to escape and come to see the fish by herself. She climbed up on the chair opposite mine to point out a black fish that was hiding, and we had probably the most engaging conversation I had all day (or perhaps fortnight). Of course, her mother eventually came and dragged her away, telling me I probably didn't imagine myself having a guest at dinner. Was that entirely necessary, ma'am? I have to wonder, was she afraid of bothering me? Was she afraid of me? Why are adults so afraid of each other? I wish more people could trust.
So, done with my meal, I began the journey home. On the ride home I was feeling a bit deflated, but I ended up sitting across from a sleeping older gentleman. I hadn't been thinking I'd be doing any more drawing that night, but I just knew he wasn't going anywhere for a while so I had to make use of the situation. What I produced is quite honestly the most surprising drawing I've made in a very long time. Maybe it's the new pen I was working with, or just a function of my mood, but I never in a thousand years would have expected that such an image could come from me. It's nothing like anything I've ever made before. Maybe this is an exaggeration. Maybe it takes an eye very finely attuned to the nuances of my work, an eye only I could ever possess. But this drawing has character. It has elegance, and courage, and grace. Perhaps I create straw men for myself to knock down, but if anyone ever accuses me of only being able to make precious, delicate drawings of little girls, I will be able to pull this out with pride and say "Indeed?" Of course, I was bursting with artistic vanity, wishing to share this product of my simple mind. As soon as I had a moment alone with my friend, my roommate, my confidant, I showed him the drawing, and asked him what he thought of it. He looked a bit puzzled, a bit interested. He wasn't sure what to make of it. I asked him if it wasn't powerfully unlike anything I'd ever made. He did not seem impressed.
I do not know what to do with myself anymore. It feels so juvenile to have this need to be understood. I've worked so hard to understand myself and what I love, and I'm so bursting with the need to share all the love I've found with the world, and... It just feels as if no one wants it. I'm finally opening up and yearning to give to everyone I meet, but do they want it? Do they want any of it? No, no, no, no, no. I have often lamented a certain word women seem to find all too easy to apply to me. This word is "interesting." I despise this word. I loathe it. I wish nothing more than to distance myself from it entirely. To be honest, no, I do not mind being interesting. I could take it as part of a larger package of virtues. But all too often it feels like a dismissal. "Interesting" is how people describe artwork they do not understand and frankly could do without. "Interesting" is not a close friend, a confidant, or, dare I say, a lover. "Interesting" is someone you might be able to ponder, but would never, in a thousand years, consider giving anything of yourself to, or opening up to in any way. Is all I have to share with the world a flow of ideas, or is there more to me than this? Once again, I have no one to blame but myself. "Interesting" is no doubt a persona I have worn all too easily over the years, and it has now perhaps become inescapable. But someone out there will respect me for more than my thoughts. Someday.
Sometimes when I am not sure what to do with my life I take little journeys. Today was such a day. I have been feeling very good about myself lately. I am starting to get in better shape, my art is going phenomenally well, and I have a very concrete long-term goal for my career, even if short-term opportunities are looking a little anemic. Despite all this I have recently received a rejection, of sorts. I don't blame anyone for it, least of all the person who rejected me, as indeed it barely qualifies as a rejection. Just a... lack of reciprocation. In any case, I don't wish to brood on this, but rather to make the point that despite feeling very very good about who I am as a person right now I am more than ever before frustrated with my lack of ability to make meaningful connections with other people. So I took a small journey.
Thinking I had been cooped up in my studio working with "ideas" and "executions" a bit too much lately, I decided I needed to do some observational drawing, so I set out to ride the rails and find inspiration among the people and places of Boston's subway system, as is my wont. I set out for nowhere in particular, and soon found an interesting and pleasantly unaware subject to draw on my trip into the city. She was not, I would say, traditionally beautiful, but she reminded me of someone I know and like, and was engaged in the most conspicuously unglamorous act imaginable, which is eating a slice of pizza with black olives and pepperoni. I watched her, feeling absurdly voyeuristic as she bit, chew, glanced around, wiped her mouth, etc. never seeming to notice that she was the object of my gaze. (I find the relationship between the word "subject" as it implies a person being depicted in artwork and the word "subject" as it implies the protagonist or main actor in a narrative fascinating - aren't they exactly opposite? Isn't the subject of a painting subservient to the painter and really more of an object, and isn't the subject of a narrative subservient to no one but his or herself?) In any case I soon grew too self-conscious even to continue this drawing, as more people were piling onto the car, so I took to drawing things around me. But even then I was held under the gaze of an uninvited audience. I wanted to yell at them - Well, if you find my work so interesting, why don't you talk to me as a person instead of gazing at me from afar? I am aware of the irony of this - that I would accuse them of voyeurism when I was caught in the act of drawing an unsuspecting passenger - but at least I was actively observing, and making no attempts to conceal my observation. Such is the role of the artist - to enact consciously what others only rehearse unwittingly.
In any case, I meandered about on the rails for a time, and eventually grew hungry. I decided (proximity was a major factor) to set myself free in Chinatown and enjoy a cheap, simple bowl of pho. This was the best decision I have made in some time. It was delicious. I sat, or was sat, next to a large glass fish tank set into a partition. Across the room was a small girl, about two or three, sitting with an odd group. On one side of the table sat two men, one Asian and one White. On the girl's side sat the girl, an older boy, and a middle-aged woman. The two children were Asian, or perhaps half-Asian. The older woman was white, and could have been their mother, but seemed a bit too old for it. In any case at some point the girl dragged her possible mother over to the fish tank (that is, over to my table), but the woman pulled her away, saying something like "he just wants to eat his dinner." I tried to tell her (the girl, or maybe them) that it was fine, that they could look at the fish, and that I wasn't bothered, but they were gone. Later the girl managed to escape and come to see the fish by herself. She climbed up on the chair opposite mine to point out a black fish that was hiding, and we had probably the most engaging conversation I had all day (or perhaps fortnight). Of course, her mother eventually came and dragged her away, telling me I probably didn't imagine myself having a guest at dinner. Was that entirely necessary, ma'am? I have to wonder, was she afraid of bothering me? Was she afraid of me? Why are adults so afraid of each other? I wish more people could trust.
So, done with my meal, I began the journey home. On the ride home I was feeling a bit deflated, but I ended up sitting across from a sleeping older gentleman. I hadn't been thinking I'd be doing any more drawing that night, but I just knew he wasn't going anywhere for a while so I had to make use of the situation. What I produced is quite honestly the most surprising drawing I've made in a very long time. Maybe it's the new pen I was working with, or just a function of my mood, but I never in a thousand years would have expected that such an image could come from me. It's nothing like anything I've ever made before. Maybe this is an exaggeration. Maybe it takes an eye very finely attuned to the nuances of my work, an eye only I could ever possess. But this drawing has character. It has elegance, and courage, and grace. Perhaps I create straw men for myself to knock down, but if anyone ever accuses me of only being able to make precious, delicate drawings of little girls, I will be able to pull this out with pride and say "Indeed?" Of course, I was bursting with artistic vanity, wishing to share this product of my simple mind. As soon as I had a moment alone with my friend, my roommate, my confidant, I showed him the drawing, and asked him what he thought of it. He looked a bit puzzled, a bit interested. He wasn't sure what to make of it. I asked him if it wasn't powerfully unlike anything I'd ever made. He did not seem impressed.
I do not know what to do with myself anymore. It feels so juvenile to have this need to be understood. I've worked so hard to understand myself and what I love, and I'm so bursting with the need to share all the love I've found with the world, and... It just feels as if no one wants it. I'm finally opening up and yearning to give to everyone I meet, but do they want it? Do they want any of it? No, no, no, no, no. I have often lamented a certain word women seem to find all too easy to apply to me. This word is "interesting." I despise this word. I loathe it. I wish nothing more than to distance myself from it entirely. To be honest, no, I do not mind being interesting. I could take it as part of a larger package of virtues. But all too often it feels like a dismissal. "Interesting" is how people describe artwork they do not understand and frankly could do without. "Interesting" is not a close friend, a confidant, or, dare I say, a lover. "Interesting" is someone you might be able to ponder, but would never, in a thousand years, consider giving anything of yourself to, or opening up to in any way. Is all I have to share with the world a flow of ideas, or is there more to me than this? Once again, I have no one to blame but myself. "Interesting" is no doubt a persona I have worn all too easily over the years, and it has now perhaps become inescapable. But someone out there will respect me for more than my thoughts. Someday.