The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl

July 31, 2024

“The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl” 7/26/24. acrylic paint. 36×36″.

“Stick with me and I’ll pay off someday.”

That’s a lyric from The Copyrights’ “Keep Me in the Dark.” It’s one that’s resonated with me since it was released fifteen years ago. 

I have a lot of core beliefs about myself and all but one of them are negative. The one, good one is that I’m smart. I’ve been told and I’ve seen objective proof of it all throughout my life, going back as far as I can remember. Because of that, I always believed growing up that I’d be successful no matter what. Even when I was in high school and totally fucking off and getting terrible grades. Even when I got fucked up the night before SATs and blew them off by not showing and never rescheduling. I still believed on some level that I’d wind up at a prestigious college. And sure enough – despite a total lack of financial support or connections of any kind – I finished my education with a Juris Doctor at Georgetown Law. Granted, I did eventually start working hard to earn that when I was at a community college, but still.

That kind of positive reinforcement – that I’m always going to succeed (eventually) – might not have been the best thing for me. It hurts to admit it but I’ve been through quite a few relationships since “stick with me and I’ll pay off someday” and – quite arguably – I have not. Not in a financial sense anyway. Not for good. Maybe here and there. Certainly not now.

I am “the boy nobody wanted” (as far as I’m concerned). Whether or not I’m going to “win the super bowl” (in the sense alluded to by the preceding paragraphs) remains to be seen. And it’s the subject of some controversy in my life at the moment. (That is to say, the question of whether or not I can support a family or even myself). But in another, more immediate sense, I have won the super bowl.

I don’t generally like to borrow from other people’s art, but I made an exception in the case of this painting.

Bart Simpson is trying to be a part of his family’s Thanksgiving. He’s also arguably trying to be the center of attention but the key fact is that he wants to participate. And in doing so, he accidentally destroys an elaborate centerpiece that Lisa had made for the family’s Thanksgiving table. His parents scold him. His mom says he’s “ruined Thanksgiving.” He’s sent to his room. Feeling that he’s the victim of a great injustice, he declares that he doesn’t care about or need his family and he sneaks out his bedroom window.

After a day out in the city on his own, he returns home and imagines the reception he’ll get. Even though his family has been worried sick about him and just want him safely back home, Bart imagines walking in the front door only to be chastised and shamed further. Again, he responds to (what he perceives as) his family’s rejection of him by declaring that he doesn’t need his family but – having nowhere else to go – he climbs up onto the house’s roof. Once up there, he finds a trove of forgotten toys. Balls, frisbees, water rockets, and more that were lost when they went too high and got stuck on the roof. He’s thrilled and begins playing by himself. Tossing a football into the air and running to the other side of the roof to catch it, he shouts (as the balls lands in his hands), “The boy nobody wanted JUST, WON, THE SUPER BOWL!!!” Bart is achingly self-conscious, feels unloved – tolerated at best – and alone. But in this moment, despite all that, he’s found a little bit of joy.

That’s how I felt as I painted this. I can’t even express in words how I felt many times in the last few weeks as I worked on this piece. Taking a step back and examining my work, I was filled with such joy. Pride. Really, a kind of awe. I love the way this painting looks and that was the case for much of the process. Often enough, it’s quite some time before I start to really like the way one of my pieces looks. But so many little, inconsequential details that (I’m sure) very few people will ever even notice in this painting, made me so happy. The contrast between two neighboring swaths of color. The expression on one of my little “creatures’” faces. The pattern in some area. The texture of a background. These things delighted me.

It’s always great when someone else appreciates my art but I’m so grateful that I’m my own biggest fan. That I’ve found something that can make me so happy. And that it’s something that I make myself. It doesn’t exist without me. That’s a pretty great feeling.

Rejection – even just perceived rejection – hurts, for sure. And on some level, I always have and always will feel like “the boy nobody wanted.” And so far as the rest of the world’s concerned – yeah – I’ve not won anything close to a super bowl. But I also know that all the financial or material success in the world won’t fix that feeling in me that I’m “the boy nobody wanted.” Money’s not gonna make that go away. But so long as I can get a few wins – even alone, up on my roof – hey, things could be worse.

“Keep Me in the Dark” by The Copyrights – referenced at the beginning of this blog entry.


Check it out! 👆 The webstore is up and running, which means it’s now easier than ever to support YOUR FAVORITE ARTIST 😜 and get your very own, limited-edition print. Check the product page for more info or just browse through the whole shop.

In a RARE TWIST(!) though, the original painting hasn’t yet sold. (At least not as of the time of this writing). Contact me if you’re interested. 😎

Shit Fits / Funny Faces

December 23, 2013

I used one of the frames I got the other day for my most CONTROVERSIAL(!) painting – Toilet Humor. When I shared a photo of that, I got one particularly succinct response: “Crap.”

One of my earliest pieces.
“Toilet Humor.”  11/10/12. My THIRD EVER non-assigned drawing or painting.

That (I think) is fair. Sort of. As a standalone image, it kinda screams, “look at me!” and (arguably) little else. I added a link to its entry on my website, with the statement I had written. That’ll clear this all up!

My critic’s response: “Still crap.”

Come on!

I guess I understand but, at that point, I no longer thought it was fair. I said as much and added that it’s clearly something I put a lot of time and thought into it. She said it’s contrived. In a sense, that’s true. It wasn’t natural; it took a lot of strain and effort, not because it was bullshit but because it’s difficult and scary to work with and write about something that’s got such potential to hurt (or at least offend). And that’s especially true when your audience is online. Truth be told, it even makes me so uncomfortable that (as tempted as I was) it took a little while to compel myself to actually re-read the statement. There’s nothing easy about “Toilet Humor.” And if it’s insulting to my critic’s intelligence (as I was also told) she must be a whole lot smarter than I am.

The point I’m really getting at [I have one, I swear!] is that, while I absolutely stand by the piece, it is worth mentioning that it’s one of my very first; is totally unlike the stuff I paint these days; and that that’s (I think) both good and bad. On the one hand, “rich kids care about politics”; I’m too caught up in my own nonsense to wanna make any kinda statement beyond my “artist’s statements,” e.g. “Today I threw an emotional shit fit and then painted a bunch of funny faces about it!” [My regular “go-to” when I wanna make fun of myself and my art. Pretty spot on, right!?]

I poke fun but that part of my process is really important to me, I’m glad I do it, and I need to do it. But the value of work like “Toilet Humor” is that it forces me outside my comfort zone and (I don’t think) that’s ever a bad thing. And I don’t mean to say that I’m tackling issues; I wasn’t off on any irrelevant/diversionary social or political rants. Like most of what I do, it’s thoroughly personal.

Which brings me to my piece from today, ”Shit Fits / Funny Faces.” (It was bound to happen sooner or later, if only because I think I’m hilarious).

"Shit Fits / Funny Faces." 12/22/13. Acrylic and spray paints, food coloring, and ink. 18x24".
“Shit Fits / Funny Faces.” 12/22/13. Acrylic and spray paints, food coloring, and ink. 18×24″.

The “shit fit” that gave rise to it had nothing to do with Toilet Humor. It takes a lot more than criticism of my art to send me into a downward spiral. That only happens when something really serious goes down. You know – like A GIRL NOT PAYING ENOUGH ATTENTION TO ME FIRST THING IN THE MORNING WHEN WE WAKE UP. Or, um, something like that anyway…

Hey, Heather! Look! I’m talking about you on my website again! JUST LIKE YOU (implied that) YOU WANTED (or at least liked?) (I think!?!)

(I love you).

—–

large canvasUp next, I have a canvas that’s more than twice as big as any other I’ve ever worked with. I got it for just thirty bucks!

  • Numbered, signed and sealed 12×16″ prints of Shit Fits / Funny Faces and Toilet Humor are both sold in my webstore.
  • For information regarding the availability of these (or any of my) originals for purchase, shoot me an email. [Update (12/24/13): Shit Fits / Funny Faces has been purchased].

Don’t Try

November 30, 2013

"Don't Try." 1/16/13. Charcoal on scrap paper. 5x7".
“Don’t Try.” 1/16/13. Charcoal on scrap paper. 5×7″.

self-imposed deadline + bad time management = short, sub-par entry!

This is another one of my learning-to-draw-with-charcoal sketches from January. I’m not gonna try to spin a narrative out of it, but this little scrap of paper does have some significance to me.

  • The charcoal was a gift from my friend, Mary Beth – someone I never would have met (let alone had the opportunity to become friends with in any other context) – but who was one of the most influential forces in my life, at the point when that sort of thing mattered the most. I was just beginning to get ready to try to figure out what kind of a life I might want to have. Mary Beth was the first person to push me toward art as a “career.” Without her, I don’t think I’d have ever had the confidence to put myself out there as I have or to try to sell my art.

  • "Save Yourself." 11/19/13. Pens and markers. 5x6½".
    This was also drawn in an NA meeting (ten months later).

    Despite the caption/title, this is an example of me trying; trying to draw things I hadn’t drawn before (a bird, a cup, an axe, a Disney cigarette). I’m pretty sure that Bukowski’s tombstone says, “Don’t Try.” Which – if I understand correctly – is in line with the whole Yoda “do or do not, there is no try” thing. I guess that’s sorta what I was saying here. I mean – sure – when I look at it, I don’t see much. It looks like failure. But it’s not, really; it’s a product of that time in my life. It’s not much so far as “art” goes, but it’s an artifact from an important period in my life, and that’s worth something to me.

  • Sometimes (when I’m losing my mind) I wanna do everything; I can’t sit still (until ALL PROBLEMS are completely resolved). In that frame of mind though, I’m usually only capable of making things worse. “Don’t try” isn’t a bad message to send myself at times like that. Sometimes, sitting still is all I really ought to be doing and I have to beat myself into realizing that attempting anything else is just gonna prolong my torture.

That’s it! Now I’m gonna get started putting together something decent for tomorrow.

Why I Fail

October 27, 2013

"Why I Fail." 12/8/12. Tempera, watercolor, oil pastel. 9x12".
“Why I Fail.” 12/8/12. Tempera, watercolor, oil pastel. 9×12″.

Initially, this was to be a painting of me and this girl, having a picnic under the shade of a tree. You know – cute, innocent. Except not really.

Toward the end of 2012, there were a couple times in the van when I took out my headphones and noticed that the female patients were a little more giggly than usual – and talking about trees. On both occasions, I was the only male in the van and had been listening to music but it was still pretty dumb insofar as it was painfully obvious. Trees was a code word (and not a particularly clever one). I didn’t say anything though (who was I to ruin their fun?) I just rolled my eyes and put my headphones back in.

But that’s how I got the idea and I thought was really clever. On the surface, it’d be really sweet and innocuous but – underlying that – something a little bolder. I wanted it to say, “Hey, I like you, you like me, we’re really cute together,” as well as, “I know what your little code word means and – oh –  here’s a picture of my dick — how ’bout that?”

So I set to work. First thing’s first: I needed to trace my penis (you know – the “tree” under which we’d be having our picnic). I chose not to start tracing from the bottom edge because I wanted to leave a little ambiguity. (Like, “Is this the whole thing? Maybe! Maybe not!”). After all, you don’t wanna give it all away, right? I still needed to camouflage it to some extent with branches and leaves, but I decided to draw the two of us sitting in the grass first.

I couldn’t fucking do it. I couldn’t get the characters to look the way that I wanted. I erased and began again over and over until I got frustrated. And then it occurred to me: this wonderful new thing (art) that had recently come into my life — I didn’t enjoy it because it was a way for me to showcase my dazzling fucking wit (or my penis), I enjoyed it because it was a way for me to legitimately work through my feelings and express myself authentically. This – what I was currently engaged in – was bullshit. And what do you know? Like so many of my mistakes and fuck-ups, both big and small, what was at the root of this misstep? My dick.

I changed course, painted without intent, and looked at the page. Yeah – there it was, right in front of me: WHY I FAIL.

—–

Aside from a commission, my first sale was for two pieces: this painting and a drawing.

My first sale as an artist was a painting of my dick.

The buyer had to have seen it, right? Jacob certainly spotted it when I posted it on Facebook back in December. I opted to respond vaguely with comments like, “Eye of the beholder, my friend!” (even when he posted his own derivative work on Imgur to support his interpretation).

I think I was scared because if I acknowledged  it, anyone that saw it could play mathematician based on the dimensions of the painting. Unless I also added that it wasn’t my entire penis. And then I’m suddenly the kid on the internet writing about how “my dick is at least this big (and who knows how much bigger?)!”

Which – now – I totally am anyway.

[By the way,  the answer: not that much].

tipjar

Blueprint For a Successful Evening

September 9, 2013

"Blueprint For a Successful Evening." 6/17/13 and 5/12/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 24x18".
“Blueprint For a Successful Evening.” 6/17/13 and 5/12/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 24×18″.

I’m always busy. I always have “really important” stuff that I “have” to do. When I was living in DC, it was Traffic Street Records year-round and law school around final exam time. Back then (before heroin became the main problem), I feel like the biggest point of tension in my relationship was my emotional unavailability. Every night, Taylor would ask me to come to bed, I’d tell her I was almost done, and then six hours would pass before I actually made it to the bedroom. So every night she went to sleep alone, woke up while I was still asleep, and then came home from work to find me busy packing up records or laying out a record insert or [whatever]. Eventually, I started doing whatever Traffic Street stuff that I could at school instead of the apartment, so that she’d already be asleep when I got home and I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about not coming to bed and not paying attention to her.

Heather and I moved to Jacksonville this June. She didn’t have a job lined up before we got here so, for the first two weeks, we were both home all the time. Since I’m always busy, I’m never bored and I’m always content in that regard. But Heather has been working [forever] and likes having a job to go to every day. Consequently, she was bored out of her mind. And – maybe because of my own insecurities and my experiences with Taylor – I felt guilty anytime I was working instead of paying attention to her. It was stressing me out. And the fact that she was visibly bored and unhappy made even harder. Especially when I tried to talk to her about it and she just tuned out. Eventually, I decided that there was nothing I could do and just went about doing my own thing. But when it got to the point where we were barely talking at all, it was too much.

I’m feeling disconnected. I’m trying to push through it, assume the best, not stress out. If someone’s not talking to me, it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with me. They could just not feel like talking. Or it could have everything to do with me. But if every attempt at conversation – every question asked – is met with a one-word response, what am I supposed to do? [Moving to a new city together] is supposed to be exciting. And it is for me. But I feel like only for me. And that tempers the excitement a bit. I opened up, put everything out there. Explained with sincerity how I’m feeling. And I got nothing back. Literally, no response.
[ -written June 17th]

I was at a loss. Now I couldn’t work. I sat alone in the living room dumbfounded. And scatterbrained; I had my probation deadline hanging over my head and hadn’t finished my community service hours yet. That was also weighing on me and fucking me up. Especially since I was getting my hours from home; that meant that I could have been doing it in that moment, but wasn’t. Instead, I decided that I needed to paint. It had been too long.

There’s a small block of text in the center of the canvas:

My first impulse is to lie in bed, face down, and cry forever. My second is to beat off. I need to write and paint. I spill my guts and… I’m struggling. Sharing life isn’t easy. I might not be built for it. It’s tough to know what’s right for me. I like being me but it isn’t easy. I guess nothing is. That doesn’t feel true.

The next day – as has so often been the case this summer – I did a total one-eighty. Within twenty-four hours of painting “Blueprint,” I was working on a drawing that says: “I couldn’t be happier” – something I genuinely felt.

REVISION (5/31/14):

Nearly a year had passed since I painted this piece and it remained unsold. That’s mostly due to the fact that I hadn’t been displaying it because I didn’t really like it anymore. I don’t usually go back and work on old pieces because I tend to think of them as “artifacts” from another time in my career. But if I was keeping it locked up in a trunk, in a garage somewhere, it wasn’t really doing much good as an artifact or anything else for that matter. Better to go back, work on it some more – until it was something that I could be proud of and sell with confidence. It took another ten hours or so and I finished it on May 12, 2014. Sixteen days later, it was sold. Here’s what it used to look like…

"Blueprint For a Successful Evening." 6/17/13. Acrylic and pen. 18x24".
“Blueprint For a Successful Evening,” as it was upon its initial completion on 6/17/13..

 

Little Vomit-Colored Hearts

September 1, 2013

"Little Vomit-Colored Hearts." 2/12/13. Acrylics, pen, and collage (cardboard, resin sand, and crushed up Peptol-Bismol) on a strange wooden frame. 12" (diameter) round.
“Little Vomit-Colored Hearts.” 2/12/13. Acrylics, pen, and collage (cardboard, resin sand, and crushed up Peptol-Bismol) on a strange wooden frame. 12″ (diameter) round.

The text in the center says: “It’s my hope that someday I’ll be able to draw a cartoon Heather that’s maybe 5% as adorable as the real thing.” The large (vomit-colored) text says, “Lovesick.” The rest:

If I had to guess, I’d say you might not be the biggest Valentine’s day celebrant to walk the earth. Which is cool. But any excuse I can grab hold of to tell you I think you’re great with some extra-effort-little gesture… I’m into. Can I be unabashedly romantic/sappy for a minute? You make me wanna puke up little vomit-colored hearts. (What’d I tell you? Romantic). I’m a heroin addict – you see past it. I’m weird as shit – you’re into it. You think you’re (relatively) boring – you’re not. You’re just (relatively) sane (maybe).  Which is awesome. You make me wanna be as good as I can be. You make me wanna live the best life possible. (I already wanted those things, but you make me want ‘em even more). And still have plenty of ridiculous adventures. But with you by my side. I wanna get in all kindsa trouble (and fuck up all kindsa shit) with you. (I mean that in the best way possible). I wanna get in good kindsa trouble. I don’t know about all these words. When I think about you and when I’m with you, sometimes I feel insecure. Until you speak. And then I feel the opposite. I feel safe and okay. (Still pretty new for me). You’re the warmest, most supportive, encouraging, loving, inspiring, high-school-mean-girl-Christian-bully that I’ve ever met. You’re so fucking sharp and beautiful and honest and [fuck!] You’re stylish and funny and perfectly imperfect and strong and independent. and everything good on this wacky fucking planet. You’re a dream I don’t want to wake up from. Happy (two day’s early) Valentine’s day, Heather.

So reads the text at the top of this piece. Following that are some “nervous afterthoughts,
which I wrote over the course of the next hour or so, and then bracketed and labeled as such.

Wanna be my girlfriend? Like – for realsies?
Actually, scratch that.
You already are.
Like it or not!
{You make me feel like a kid again. Not much of a stretch, but – you know…).
Thanks for taking a chance on a kid in rehab.
I adore you.

New relationships in early recovery are not recommended. And if you’re inpatient in rehab (I think it goes without saying that) they’re not allowed at all. For me especially – they’re a bad idea. Keeping the proper distance between girls and me had been a task my various rehab counselors and I had been dealing with for more than a year. This last January, I was still living at Tranquil Shores, but I was no longer technically an inpatient. I operated according to a different set of rules. I could leave property for up to two hours at a time, provided I got approval from my counselor first and got all the paperwork signed and into the hands of the residential property staff.

There was this girl (Heather!) that I had added on Facebook at some point, thinking that she was someone else. Sometime later, after her name popped up a few times, I actually checked her page and realized she wasn’t who I thought. She was pretty and we had mutual friends in Sarasota; I thought it was strange that I didn’t know her (or at least have some idea of who she was), but [whatever]. Now – in January – I saw a post of hers: “When I do good at work, I like to reward myself by breaking out with ‘THIS GIRL IS ONE FIREEE.’ Customers love me.” I had no idea what that lyric was from, but I thought that was pretty fucking cute. I responded with “In theory, if I had an internet crush on you – how would you feel about that?” The next day, she commented on something I posted, I responded, and we started emailing back and forth. Within a couple days, we were spending hours exchanging messages. I liked her a lot and I realized really quickly that there was something different this time. The last few girls that I had dated, I was constantly asking myself whether or  not I really liked them… I was always having to convince myself that it was genuine for [this reason] or [that reason]. I didn’t have to convince myself of anything this time. I was unqualifiedly into this girl. I somehow coaxed her into agreeing to come up to visit me (in rehab). And I got her phone number and started calling her instead of writing her because that seemed like the healthy, brave thing to do.

Funny aside: The three Rational Anthem kids were amongst our mutual friends. After Heather and I had been writing each other for all of a day or so, I called each of them and said something like: “I’m going to ask you about someone but – before I give you the name – I need to warn you to speak carefully because this is the girl I’m going to marry. What can you tell me about Heather Pierce?” Admittedly, those calls were partially motivated by something authentic and partially by my own enjoyment of how perpetually lovesick I seemed to make myself. As miserable as it made me at times, I thought there was something cute or funny about it.

So she was interested in coming to see me but that didn’t mean that my counselor was actually going to approve it. And I was fairly certain that even if she allowed this girl to come see me, there was no way she’d actually let me leave the courtyard/property with her. But she did. She and the rest of the treatment staff decided that in light of everything, the best approach was to allow it and monitor it through my sessions. Talk to me about it, counsel me, and just make sure that I didn’t somehow lose my shit as a consequence. It was one thing to keep me off heroin, but to keep me off girls was pretty much impossible. Better to let me get involved now, while they could help me along the way, then wait until I was out on my own and not under their care and guidance twenty-two to twenty-four hours a day.

There’s so much more that I could say, but I’ve got another piece that I can use to tell more of this story. Her first visit was January 29th. I made and gave this to her on February 12th, the night of our fourth “date.”

Turning in unusually early…

August 31, 2013

20130831-003030.jpg
What my current (30×40″) work-in-progress looked like yesterday…

I did some searches today with terms like “jacksonville art.” A lot of groups that want artists to apply, pay application fees, and then (if accepted) pay membership dues in exchange for better percentages on pieces sold in juried exhibitions (if selected). Also a lot of stuff about “acceptable” frames and wall mounts. A lot of other rules too.

I guess that’s how this sort of thing works?

Do I know anyone that’s ever attempted (and succeeded to any degree) to participate in any kind of “professional” arts world/scene?

Before that, I took some duct tape and fliers down to an area with foot traffic and put ’em on walls and streetlight posts. That’s a little more my speed. It feels a little more “right” but I’m trying not to be discouraged or turned off by that other stuff. And I’m not really. I mean – a little bit I guess. Really, I’m just not sure what to make of it. I’m still pretty new at this.

I’m usually up ’til 4 am and up by 9. It must be catching up with me today ’cause it’s only midnight and I’m exhausted.

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