There's this.
And there's that.
This being complacency and That being fear, if you're not aware.
I tend to swing wildly between the two. I am a sometime pendulum thrown off whack, undulating and spinning and careening into objects before my movements slow and my discontented, jangly-limbed-jig slows to a tired Minette in the corner, and I am back to the beginning, waiting to get going again, moving slowly between one end and another. The ends and their means, I think. Most likely.
The difference between static and chaos.
* * * * *
When I was younger, my artwork was never more than something I hoarded, something I hid, anticipating disappointment - that Spark of recognition would eventually fail to show, The Frown crept up slowly and pulled down at the corners of mouths like an insistent child yanking on a hand - and I would be worse off then before...
Before: a nervous wreck, finishing off a piece hoping someone would get it, someone would unravel it and thus me by immediately understanding the deeper meanings my zoned-out-zen-ed-out mind put forth.
After: a worse wreck, wretched and misinterpreted, misguided, apparently. Discouraged that an attempt to reach out in my own weird way was missed. Disappointed my quiet compatibility test was so horrifically failed.
By thirteen, I was accused of passing a friend's work off as my own...it was too good to be the bitchy creepy girl's, I guess. I refused to show anyone anything, ever. Under no circumstances.
At seventeen, I forced myself to enroll in a printmaking class. I gave myself stomach aches that lasted for days before class critiques. For what it was worth, I was satisfied to put forth a meaningless, empty and eventually mediocre effort, focusing instead on skill and precision. I was another student, mid level, not worth noting, not worth dissecting. I was OK.
At eighteen, I began a collage class that pushed and pulled in uncomfortable ways at my brain. I self medicated. I was thrust beyond my comfortable zone of Trite and Fail safe. I self medicated. I ended up making decent work, improving my skill, and unlocking that Bullshit Inner Artist. Because I self medicated, not because of the class. God, I hated that fucking class. Never learn assemblage from a weaver. Regardless. I created what was the best work of my life, seamlessly, and it was like breathing. I would "zone out" (ahem), get to work, and when what seemed like mere minutes would pass, I would look up, and know it was done. I gave the best piece of the lot to my fetus' sperm donor, hoping it would garner some praise. It did. In between bong hits and asking for money. I retreated again.
At twenty one, I picked up my x-acto again. I vented. I spewed forth bile on paper. I put down all of the anger and betrayal and unrest and let it go to the degree I was capable of. I heard, "obvious". I heard, "simple". I heard, "not very subtle, is it?". I heard, "that's uncomfortable for me". What was once on a wall was put into drawers. The bottoms of drawers, beneath the glues and pastes and torn-up Vogues and Flaunts. I tore up a 25 cent kid's book made out of tag board, peeled away the sugar-sweet tale and put my own down. I put down and chronicled, two pages at a time, my relationships. The "I like you, but not in that way". The ninety mile trips to Seattle to hear that I wasn't it. The mediocrity I settled for as a diversion. The brief sweetness, and my eventual dissatisfaction with being bored by it. I hid this in my closet, at the back, behind an amp and a box full of vintage faux fur and platform heels.
At twenty three, I dance around it. We tango without touching, we flirt and flick tongues across the room at each other. I meander close and sew a piece without a pattern, embroider freehand, crochet in wild colors in odd shapes and knit with bizarre texture and irregularly shaped buttons and baubles.
I don't touch my knives, my mod podge.
But I've been asked to.
How could I go back to that? After scoffing at myself, after driving my curvilinear talent into straight ruts to make it more acceptable, more palatable, less likely to be misconstrued? After I mock myself for even attempting to call what it is "artwork"?
Auggie, she chastises and quietly purses her lips. "DIY is not collage."
I know.
Before: a nervous wreck, finishing off a piece hoping someone would get it, someone would unravel it and thus me by immediately understanding the deeper meanings my zoned-out-zen-ed-out mind put forth.
After: a worse wreck, wretched and misinterpreted, misguided, apparently. Discouraged that an attempt to reach out in my own weird way was missed. Disappointed my quiet compatibility test was so horrifically failed.
By thirteen, I was accused of passing a friend's work off as my own...it was too good to be the bitchy creepy girl's, I guess. I refused to show anyone anything, ever. Under no circumstances.
At seventeen, I forced myself to enroll in a printmaking class. I gave myself stomach aches that lasted for days before class critiques. For what it was worth, I was satisfied to put forth a meaningless, empty and eventually mediocre effort, focusing instead on skill and precision. I was another student, mid level, not worth noting, not worth dissecting. I was OK.
At eighteen, I began a collage class that pushed and pulled in uncomfortable ways at my brain. I self medicated. I was thrust beyond my comfortable zone of Trite and Fail safe. I self medicated. I ended up making decent work, improving my skill, and unlocking that Bullshit Inner Artist. Because I self medicated, not because of the class. God, I hated that fucking class. Never learn assemblage from a weaver. Regardless. I created what was the best work of my life, seamlessly, and it was like breathing. I would "zone out" (ahem), get to work, and when what seemed like mere minutes would pass, I would look up, and know it was done. I gave the best piece of the lot to my fetus' sperm donor, hoping it would garner some praise. It did. In between bong hits and asking for money. I retreated again.
At twenty one, I picked up my x-acto again. I vented. I spewed forth bile on paper. I put down all of the anger and betrayal and unrest and let it go to the degree I was capable of. I heard, "obvious". I heard, "simple". I heard, "not very subtle, is it?". I heard, "that's uncomfortable for me". What was once on a wall was put into drawers. The bottoms of drawers, beneath the glues and pastes and torn-up Vogues and Flaunts. I tore up a 25 cent kid's book made out of tag board, peeled away the sugar-sweet tale and put my own down. I put down and chronicled, two pages at a time, my relationships. The "I like you, but not in that way". The ninety mile trips to Seattle to hear that I wasn't it. The mediocrity I settled for as a diversion. The brief sweetness, and my eventual dissatisfaction with being bored by it. I hid this in my closet, at the back, behind an amp and a box full of vintage faux fur and platform heels.
At twenty three, I dance around it. We tango without touching, we flirt and flick tongues across the room at each other. I meander close and sew a piece without a pattern, embroider freehand, crochet in wild colors in odd shapes and knit with bizarre texture and irregularly shaped buttons and baubles.
I don't touch my knives, my mod podge.
But I've been asked to.
How could I go back to that? After scoffing at myself, after driving my curvilinear talent into straight ruts to make it more acceptable, more palatable, less likely to be misconstrued? After I mock myself for even attempting to call what it is "artwork"?
Auggie, she chastises and quietly purses her lips. "DIY is not collage."
I know.
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