Don't worry. I'm a vegetarian. I guess that still doesn't un-kill you though.
Ever heard of Deviantart? No? It’s only, like the biggest online social network for artists. Kind of a Facebook for artists, I suppose. And by Facebook for artists, I mean the number of people on Facebook who think themselves socially well-adjusted is nearly proportional to the number on Deviantart who think themselves great artists, meaning a lot more than actually are. So sometimes when I’m feeling lonely/depressed I’ll browse mediocre art on Deviantart for hours* until I feel better, only I feel worse because I just spent hours looking at people’s mediocre art to make myself feel better.
Another way I like to make myself feel better is beating up kindergarteners.** I’m
pretty sure I beat up a kindergartener. Granted, I was six, and he probably deserved it. Plus, how else was I going to vent my hatred for kindergarten?
Well, one time, our class was instructed to draw pictures of ourselves. Naturally, I drew a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger, complete with bubble-muscles, dots for eyes, and a curve for a smile. I didn’t make high marks for following rules that year—they didn’t reward creativity where I went to school, only how well you memorized Bible verses.
Luckily, I went to a public school in first grade. And met one of my best teachers. And one of my best friends. And figured out how to excel in school
and still create art the way I wanted to.
I drew during all my breaks/teachers’ lectures (in high school, I used those times to sleep). Then, I’d pass my drawings around class, as per my classmates’ requests, and everyone would tell me how talented I was. Of course, in my mind, I was already the most amazing artist that ever lived but appreciated the praise regardless (when you’ve grow up with
Rob Liefeld-drawn comics, it’s not hard to imagine you’re a better artist).
Thankfully, high school gave me a wakeup call. I’d met a few aspiring artists and creative types along the way but in high school, we were the ones who largely filled up the art classes. Moreover, my teachers schooled us on a lot of old masters as well as recent great art.
My delusions of grandeur began suddenly dissolving—I wasn’t the greatest artist of all time and had better work my ass off if I wanted any recognition whatsoever amidst all the other great art already created. Of course, I was naturally talented enough and likeable enough that my art teachers gave me A’s even when some pieces were only half-finished or barely even attempted. It was too much work so I became a Psych major as soon as I left high school and entered college.
I’d learned from my father that a man could ignore all the rules, never fully committing to anything or anyone, and rely on natural talent to become relatively successful in life. They had a word for his untrained talent on the tennis court—junkyard strokes—even if the other guys on the court were mostly just jealous. Well, it worked until he started to realize he wasn’t invincible, when he started getting older, his health started failing, he got divorced, and he started feeling suicidal. That’s when he practically had to rethink and rebuild himself the last five years of his life (which he did surprisingly well).
Meanwhile, I’d discovered Internet forums, Napster, and three-to-five-hour nights of sleep so I didn’t have much time to be creative anymore. Plus, college didn’t suck nearly as much as high school—I was vaguely challenged now. After an amazing 1101 class with Professor Fred Morris , I knew I wanted to become an English major and, after trying to kill myself not many years later, I knew I was going to become a writer. So the unfinished art continued piling up, and my writing was clever but near-completely irrelevant. Suicide was a wakeup call in an oncoming train’s horns and headlights, a call to become more serious about my life.
I figured I’d continue in school, honing my writing until it was worth something. Then, my cousin died, my cousin who’d always frequently, sincerely, and vocally believed in me no matter what I pursued, be it drawing, writing, making bad rap songs, anything. There was no one else I’d wanted more to make proud, and he was gone.
Second-most important was to prove myself to my father whose approval seemed near-impossible to gain, but he died a couple months later. With my gods toppled, I had only myself to prove myself to when, less than a year later, another fell. My best-friend-since-childhood’s mother died. She was the first adult to truly treat me like an adult, to actually engage my critical thinking. With her gone, I realized I had one thing left in life to do: follow my heart above all else.
During that death-fest and ever since, I’ve worked tirelessly to transform myself and my work. As many beers and grueling hours as it took to write my heart on paper, I had to do it. And after I’d poured out enough of myself, I rediscovered drawing.
This was a practice piece to help me get back into art. It's a drawing
of some scantily clad woman in an ad in Men's Health magazine.
Also, my hair-drawing skills could use some work.
I watched a lot of my friends creating art when I wasn’t, and it made me somewhat jealous. Then, I started looking through all my old drawings. There was a lot right but a lot wrong because, for all my skill, I always held back. Maybe it was fear of success or maybe a desire to look better with how much I could accomplish with so little work or maybe both. Regardless, I’d relied on junkyard strokes, leaving lightly shaded artwork that mostly captured the essence of its inspiration but could’ve been much more striking with more and darker shades where needed.
I was afraid to strike too hard, to
ruin anything beautiful, anything I’d already put so much work into, afraid to offend, afraid of anything I might be unable to erase, afraid of burning bridges, and that was true of all of my life. But not every scenario or person in life was meant to be won, and I realize that now.
So today, I’m thankful for all the friends and family who helped me through, for exercise, beer, and art, which do wonders for managing stress. I’m thankful for my family making ornery ol’ me look normal sometimes. Here’s to creating more and (much better) art because, after years of all-but-ignoring it, I’ve realized it’s more fulfilling even than music and writing.
*This is a joke. I actually browse through/seek out all the
good art on there because I find it more inspiring.
**I still don’t like kindergarteners but I don’t beat them up anymore, if I even beat up that one kid. That year’s still kind of hazy.
- Daniel J DeMersseman
http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/
