Art, interrupted.
Always in school I was the quiet kid, the smart kid, the loner. Being pushed into the next grade's reading and math classes from 1st grade on didn't exactly endear me to the rest of my classmates, of either grade. Not surprisingly, by 7th grade I had found my own companion: art.
My father is a graphic artist. Mostly he lays out menus and placemats and other items people take for granted, but he was also handy with a pen. In restaurants he would pull out his pen and do a fast, accurate caricature of himself or the owner or another patron, and we'd laugh. I always envied that talent. Try as I might, I still haven't gotten the hang of it, although my sketchbook is packed with sad attempts.
My mother also has shown me her old portfolio, pen and ink, pencil self-portraits, and her skill amazes me. She might not be Chuck Close, but her accuracy and sheer vitality of her drawings surprise me since she doesn't do any art anymore. I have never seen her draw anything in my life except for the little maps one draws on napkins to help you find the school or store.
You might say then that I've spent my life since 7th grade trying to live up to their talent. Frankly, I don't think I have it.
Despite that, I kept going. Even as my life was going to shit in high school and my academic grades started to drop due to a lack of caring, I always took the art classes. Art teachers are the best; they may be flaky, but they see more than just numbers or letters in their gradebook. I managed to worry 2 out of the 3 teachers I had. The third was teaching a design class, so still lives of his choosing didn't do much to expose the soul.
Mrs. Jach was the last teacher, my senior year Painting instructor. She wasn't as sweet as Mrs. Carroll or as skilled as the design teacher, but she had the best projects. The one that I remember, that sticks with me, that I still do today, consisted of a large circle on cheap paper and tempera paint. The goal? Just--paint. Paint what you want. Paint as stream of consciousness, don't plan, just go.
My entire set of paintings consisted of dark jewel tones--burgundy, midnight blue, indigo--with a little white angel, alone in the darkness, sometimes flying, sometimes in the nearest approximation of a corner. Around the edge of the circle I would write, pouring out what the painting meant to me, what it symbolized. I was always the angel, trying to rise above the mire that had become my existance.
I owe Mrs. Jach a lot for not only allowing an outlet but also for showing me art doesn't have to be perfect or matter to anyone else. That is what art is to me today. I'm not very good, but I like to express myself in swirls of inexpensive pigment on cheap paper.
After high school I stopped painting between socializing with other beatniks and my relationship with E. That five-year period in my life was spent trying to be less emotional, trying to force myself to grow up and lose the heat of youth. I made a couple halfhearted attempts to pick up my brushes again, but the prolonged sexual battle between us killed any inspiration I may have had. Trying to keep myself until such firm control to avoid the inevitable rejection destroyed all passion for life.
Now, away in California, my paintings are starting to cover the walls of the garage where I've set up the paints and palettes and pencils that have been waiting for far too long. Being terribly out of practice, so far I've done technique exercises: layering, shadowing, Jack Skellington in the laboratory studying how Christmas works. Finger painting over dry backgrounds, then still-wet backgrounds. Nothing to write home about, but I'm painting, and that's the important thing.
I'm painting.
My father is a graphic artist. Mostly he lays out menus and placemats and other items people take for granted, but he was also handy with a pen. In restaurants he would pull out his pen and do a fast, accurate caricature of himself or the owner or another patron, and we'd laugh. I always envied that talent. Try as I might, I still haven't gotten the hang of it, although my sketchbook is packed with sad attempts.
My mother also has shown me her old portfolio, pen and ink, pencil self-portraits, and her skill amazes me. She might not be Chuck Close, but her accuracy and sheer vitality of her drawings surprise me since she doesn't do any art anymore. I have never seen her draw anything in my life except for the little maps one draws on napkins to help you find the school or store.
You might say then that I've spent my life since 7th grade trying to live up to their talent. Frankly, I don't think I have it.
Despite that, I kept going. Even as my life was going to shit in high school and my academic grades started to drop due to a lack of caring, I always took the art classes. Art teachers are the best; they may be flaky, but they see more than just numbers or letters in their gradebook. I managed to worry 2 out of the 3 teachers I had. The third was teaching a design class, so still lives of his choosing didn't do much to expose the soul.
Mrs. Jach was the last teacher, my senior year Painting instructor. She wasn't as sweet as Mrs. Carroll or as skilled as the design teacher, but she had the best projects. The one that I remember, that sticks with me, that I still do today, consisted of a large circle on cheap paper and tempera paint. The goal? Just--paint. Paint what you want. Paint as stream of consciousness, don't plan, just go.
My entire set of paintings consisted of dark jewel tones--burgundy, midnight blue, indigo--with a little white angel, alone in the darkness, sometimes flying, sometimes in the nearest approximation of a corner. Around the edge of the circle I would write, pouring out what the painting meant to me, what it symbolized. I was always the angel, trying to rise above the mire that had become my existance.
I owe Mrs. Jach a lot for not only allowing an outlet but also for showing me art doesn't have to be perfect or matter to anyone else. That is what art is to me today. I'm not very good, but I like to express myself in swirls of inexpensive pigment on cheap paper.
After high school I stopped painting between socializing with other beatniks and my relationship with E. That five-year period in my life was spent trying to be less emotional, trying to force myself to grow up and lose the heat of youth. I made a couple halfhearted attempts to pick up my brushes again, but the prolonged sexual battle between us killed any inspiration I may have had. Trying to keep myself until such firm control to avoid the inevitable rejection destroyed all passion for life.
Now, away in California, my paintings are starting to cover the walls of the garage where I've set up the paints and palettes and pencils that have been waiting for far too long. Being terribly out of practice, so far I've done technique exercises: layering, shadowing, Jack Skellington in the laboratory studying how Christmas works. Finger painting over dry backgrounds, then still-wet backgrounds. Nothing to write home about, but I'm painting, and that's the important thing.
I'm painting.