Adventures Per Minute

June 3, 2014

"Adventures Per Minute." 5/5/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 36x48".
“Adventures Per Minute.” 5/5/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 36×48″.

“Adventures Per Minute” is how I felt in early April. From the moment I woke up until I crawled into bed each night, I was busy. Traveling back and forth between Jacksonville, Delray, and Sarasota; giving interviews and being photographed; attending the premiere of the movie I starred in; directing a music video; setting up exhibits; making and distributing fliers and meeting people; selling prints at One Spark and Spring Fest; fucking; designing album covers and merchandise for some of my favorite bands; making more money than I’ve ever made in my life; and (of course) painting – at parks, at friends’ houses, on the streets, at punk shows, on rooftops, and at galleries.

It was just outside one of those galleries that I started this painting. Passers-by would stop, compliment my work, and ask how I was doing. That sparked the first small caption: “HOW AM I? I’m standing on a stool, paintin’ funny faces outside the gallery that sells my paintings for all the moneys. So – yeah – I’m okay.”

At the other end of the canvas, I elaborated: “I have everything.” And I really do. I’m not super rich just yet but all of my needs are met and then some.

I went back to Sarasota with the intention of trading in my van for a bigger one; it was my last stop before I finally took my show on the road outside of Florida. I changed my mind about the van but had quite a time back in that city where I (sort of) grew up. Things were messy – not only with friends in Sarasota but in my “adoptive” family’s house up the road in Bradenton. Drugs, lying, screaming, stealing… it was all around me and it was starting to fuck with my head. I don’t often feel “triggered” and – for the most part – think it’s sort of a bullshit concept. One afternoon in particular became an exception. I was on the back porch painting when the weather started acting up but there was no way I was walking back into the house. I took to the top corner of my canvas and started journaling:

It’s been ten days [since I last wrote on this painting]. I’m on the porch in Bradenton. There’s a tornado warning. I don’t care. That’d be cooler if I actually thought it might hit. I would totally shoot up right now if I had drugs in front of me. [and] I HAVE THE MONEY THESE DAYS.

My best friend (the one that used to shoot heroin) – he started shooting heroin again. And smoking [and shooting] crack. I had him Marchman Acted soon as I got back to Sarasota. Everyone’s pretty happy about that – and I’ve been buying into it too. But let’s get real. Nothing has changed. This is just getting started. And it’s gonna get a lot worse. I kind of think he’s gonna die soon. What should I do? Drag him around the country with me? That’s a lot of responsibility. And what would he do all day everyday?

And I love Abby too but her situation is even tougher, more hopeless.

I was talking to Heather about some of this and she asked me if I’ll “ever get to live for myself.” But I’m more independent, disconnected, and uninvolved than anyone. I “do me” constantly. But I grew up a fuck-up with other fuck-ups and what little I’m able to do these days when this shit goes on – I need to. Sometimes I’m the only one that can. I can’t live without people anyway. It’s all part of the package.

It’s all worth it, I think. Even when it hurts a lot. And makes me wanna put a needle back in my arm. I don’t think I will but, for the second time since I stopped, I really want to. This shit is dangerous.

And I haven’t even gotten into the other shit that’s eating me right now… My phone is ringing. What kinds of decisions am I gonna make today?

I feel safer in this house with drugs, screaming, CPS, threats, lies, theft, etc. than at Morgan’s (’cause she’s got roommates) and this [house] is the only place I don’t feel like an intruder.

I paused and thought about all the good things that had happened lately – and the specifics of some of the bad… I brought the pen back to the canvas.

Life is sad and tragic and funny and beautiful. I’m usually having a pretty good time. I laugh and smile a lot. I don’t want the people I care about to die. Or to live without knowing happiness.

Up to this point, I hadn’t given any thought to what I was writing or how it might be received. I just let it come out, even when it occurred to me that I might need or want to remove Abby’s name at some point. But after I finished that long journal down the left side of the canvas, I remembered that I was creating art and that I had intended for this to be a joyful painting – a celebration of the wonderful, exciting things happening in my life. “I need to balance out all this dark with some the light I experienced leading up to this.” But (in my soul, not my brain) I really only felt compelled to write the darker (more recent) stories. I decided to phrase everything in the present tense.

I am standing in an alley while my friend smokes the last of her crack before I take her to the police station, from which she’ll be transported to detox, under court order. I picked her up in an empty parking lot.

I am dropping my “sister” off (with everything she owns) at a drug dealer’s house. An hour ago, she attempted to transfer custody of her daughter to me. I still live in / operate primarily out of A VAN. We hugged and I told her to not be a fuck-up.

I am back on Adderall [after a month without] and I think the dose is too high now and I’m too in my head and having thoughts like these: [An arrow points at the long, sad, I-wanna-shoot-heroin / my-friends-are-dying journal].

I needed my positive adventures to balance the painting and convey what “adventures per minute” had meant to me initially. But I had already told those nice stories on my blog. Repeating them here felt contrived. I did it anyway but in just four short sentences – covering One Spark, the music video, the film festival, and painting on rooftops. A few days later though, I had another adventure. But one that I didn’t want to be the first thing to pop out at someone. I hid it against a dark blue backdrop. It says: “I just PRETEND (consensually) ‘raped’ a girl that identifies as ‘gay.’ It was pretty awesome. I like her.”

So THAT sort of raises some questions and probably warrants a whole exposition of its own but this statement’s already long enough, I’m writing this in Atlanta, and – you know – I got some more adventures I really ought to be getting up to right about now so…

This blog entry was originally published in 2014. In 2024, however, I published a supplementary entry which addresses the content of the last two paragraphs.

“Adventures Per Minute” prints are available for purchase in my webstore (and are one of my MOST FAVORITE prints). Every purchase subsidizes the creation of more paintings, more writing, and ANOTHER DAY OF LIFE FOR SAM. Your support means everything to me.

Another Painting By My Favorite Artist

March 24, 2014

"Another Painting By My Favorite Artist." 3/9/14. Acrylic paint and ink. 3x4'.
“Another Painting By My Favorite Artist.” 3/9/14. Acrylic paint and ink. 3×4′.

My second painting in my new phase as a thoroughly mobile/transient/itinerant artist, this 3×4’ painting was completed over the course of eight days and in five different cities. The highlight of those days was definitely getting to paint at (and sell prints) alongside three of my favorite bands (Iron Chic, The Slow Death, and Off With Their Heads) as they came through Florida on tour.

I captioned and titled this piece relatively early in the process but days later, when I felt compelled to journal on the canvas, I looked at what I had written and realized that my chosen title couldn’t have been more perfect. The text on the canvas reads:

I’ve resisted picking up the pen because my feelings keep changing and it’s too early to find any meaning in my circumstances. Shit – it’s not even over yet. Just one person with the right reaction could turn it all around. But – right now – I feel totally defeated. It doesn’t take much. For all my success this last week, even the last month or the last year, it only takes one bad night to leave me feeling like a complete and utter failure.

It’s art walk night, it’s rainy, but I’m not in the plaza; I’m at Burrito Gallery, in the room with all my art on the wall. I’m set up with a table of prints and nobody gives a shit. The walls are covered with my art! I – the artist(!) – am identifiably sitting right here! (My exclamations are half-jokes. I know it’s not a big deal but this sort of thing always generated at least a modicum of attention. People are filtering around me without so much as a glance. And yet I sold thirty-something prints over the weekend, with last minute table set-ups at punk shows, to kids that don’t have money and don’t buy art.

The artist in the other room told me he’s been painting for twelve years but only got brave enough to show in the last five or six. “Brave?” What’s there to be brave for? The constant stream of attention and praise?! Others have told me that they admire my courage in putting myself out there as I do. It doesn’t usually feel like courage to me though. Most days, it’s easy as fuck. But that’s only ‘cause I’ve been so successful, or lucky, or good at framing–my-bad-experiences-in-such-a-way-that-I-don’t-put-too-much-stock-in-them. I need to think back to April to remember that total sense of dejection. I’ve felt it since then but not to that degree. Bad nights usually turn to good ones before I pack it in. If this one doesn’t, I just need to remember how spoiled I am. This level of rejection is not so extreme that it ought to leave me contemplating crybaby suicide. I’m already more successful than most artists will ever be and it’s not because I’m better, or smarter, or anything like that. It is because I’m braver. I square off against the threat of rejection and failure every day. I’M BUILDING MY FUCKING LIFE ON IT. And – sure – I’ve been blessed (or what-the-fuck-ever) to have gotten the overwhelmingly positive reception that I have thus far, but I know the hurt of being ignored, the sting of being turned down. AND I FUCKING HATE IT. It KILLS me. But day after day, I get up and I fucking face it. And I feel better now.

That – right there – is me, in action, using art/journaling to balance myself out – to save me from myself. It’s exactly what I tell people I’m all about and there it is in perfect practice. It’s also why I deserve to be my own favorite artist. I fucking love it. I love this wonderful outlet I’ve found. I love so much. Life is beautiful (and sometimes tragic, fucked up) and funny. Colors, shapes, mental illness – I wouldn’t have it any other way.

12×16-inch “Another Painting by My Favorite Artist” prints are now on sale in the webstore.

Status: January 14, 2014

January 14, 2014

Rational Anthem just finished recording at Black Bear in Gainesville and it sounds great. As much as I wanna talk about different songs, I’ll wait ’til everyone else can actually listen to it. I’m really excited about it though AND I found out the other day that I’m doing the artwork for it, which (of course) makes it even more exciting.

We’re headed for Tampa right now but before I get back to Jacksonville, I’m planning to hit St Pete, Sarasota/Bradenton, and Delray/Boca. Gonna visit a bunch of friends and try to hit a few galleries and other spaces about getting some shows set up for a little later in the year. To that end, I brought a ton of my prints with me, so if you wanna take a look and pick some up or just hang out, hit me up! My (tentative) schedule looks something like…
Wed-Thu: St Pete
Fri-Mon: Sarasota
Tue-Fri: Delray

20140114-170649.jpg
Here’s a picture of me because posts with pictures of me always get a lot of attention. (PROBABLY BECAUSE I’M SO HANDSOME, RIGHT??)

Pornographic Images For Children

September 10, 2013

When I was way too young to see something like… [oh… I don’t know, let’s say…] a bunch of guys wearing pig masks gang-raping a girl – I saw a video of… a bunch of guys in pig masks gang-raping a girl.

It… made me really uncomfortable. I don’t think I looked at the screen for more than a couple seconds.

When I was even younger [insert stuff I don’t want to write about here].

And then later [insert other stuff I don’t want to write about here].

In February, I saw a halloween mask that put the images from that video back in my head. And then I painted this. It was the first thing I made after moving out of Tranquil Shores. It’s the first thing I ever made that I can say isn’t really “rehab art.”

Ninja Turtles or Rough Sex
“Pornographic Images For Children.” 2/21/13. Acrylic painting on canvas. 10×12″.

This painting sold in January 2014.

Free (From Shoes, Expectations, and Toothpaste)

September 6, 2013

"Free (From Expectations, Shoes, and Toothpaste)." 4/28/13. Acrylics on canvas. 29x36".
“Free (From Shoes, Expectations, and Toothpaste).” 4/28/13. Acrylics on canvas. 29×36″.

In late February, I went to Crafty Fest at Artpool to try and sell some of my pieces. It went really well. The first week of April, I went to Indie Market in downtown St. Pete and it was a bust. A few weeks later, I went back to Crafty Fest, but this time to do both days instead of just one.

On the first day, my table was not well-positioned and I got badly sunburned relatively early in. I left my table and sat under someone else’s tent. It didn’t really matter; no one seemed to give a shit anyway. So I sat a ways away, painting as I spied on the people that would stop to look at my stuff. When someone smiled, laughed, and really stopped to look at more than a couple of my pieces, I’d walk over and start to talk to them.

One woman really liked a lot of them. When she told me she really wanted to remember the details so she could tell her friends later, I hinted that if she were to buy one, she wouldn’t have to worry about remembering it. What a concept! She asked about the price on one and – given how poorly things were going – I aimed low. Really low. “Twenty dollars,” I said. “Oh my!” she responded, “I could never spend that much! I just paid ten dollars for two chairs!”

I’m not really sure what chairs have to do with art, but that’s the story of how I brokenly sold a piece for $6.12. The only sale of the day.

I was not excited to go back for day two. That first art fair had gone really well, but this was now two in a row that had not.

That morning I woke up wondering why I was going to bother driving out to do this. “Fuck brushing my teeth, fuck putting on shoes, fuck doing anything to get ready or look presentable. I’ll go and I’ll expect nothing. I’ll spend the day painting.”

So that’s how I approached it and, right away, it felt pretty great. I had become a lot less concerned with others’ perceptions of me since my most recent (and only successful) stint in treatment, but this was a step forward still. And not giving a shit about whether or not anyone would buy any of my art – here (on this day) or ever again – it was a relief. “If there’s no market for my art – fuck it,” I decided, “that’s not why I do it anyway. It was an exciting prospect that making art (something I’m going to do no matter what) might also be something that’d free me from having to wash dishes or bag groceries for the rest of my life, but if that doesn’t work out, it won’t be the end of the world. Whenever I make something new, I’ll just give it to a friend or anyone else that wants it – and then figure out some other way to pay bills. I mean, this whole painting thing is new to me. It’s not like being an artist has been my lifelong dream.”

Things didn’t go as awfully as I prepared for. I sold quite a few pieces and made a good deal of money. That meant my street-sales record was now 2-2 and my hope / optimism concerning the possibility of art saving me from less fulfilling “work” was renewed. And the experience was even more successful in terms of the quality of time spent painting and the lessons I learned regarding acceptance and expectations.

I can be filthy and paint pictures as I smoke cigarettes barefoot on downtown sidewalks… I can do whatever it is that I do, and … that’s it. Things work out.

And I’m not talking about people appreciating my paintings and buying them. (That’s just a bonus). The best moment of the day was before any of that happened. It was the moment I realized that I was no longer dreading the day to come. It was the moment that I felt free of expectations. The moment that I felt free period.

The original painting is sold but limited edition prints may still be available.

My Treatment Plan

"My Treatment Plan." 3/28/13. Pencil, pen, and watercolor on treatment plan. 8½x11”.
“My Treatment Plan.” 3/28/13. Pencil, pen, and watercolor on treatment plan. 8½x11”.

I painted this cartoon on the front page of one of my treatment plans. It’s got a list of all of the things that I should’ve been doing at that point but wasn’t. The thing my counselor was pushing the most was that I go out and interact with human beings that weren’t (1) my girlfriend or (2) my ex-girlfriend’s family [who I lived with]. Basically – to hang out with my friends—not too unreasonable but… you know… I’m busy… and I kinda like my bubble.

On this particular evening – I was out in the great big world. I rode down to Sarasota for a house show with Rational Anthem, Wet Nurse, and Weak Nights. When the last band finished though, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Without heroin or some other intoxicant, how was I supposed to handle this? I’m good with one-on-one interaction but groups of people are tricky.

 

I decided to make myself useful; I went around the house collecting all of the beer cans and other garbage, bagged it all up and took it outside. I felt pretty good about that [it was nice to be the one cleaning up, rather than fucking up someone’s house] but … what now? I was sleeping at Pete’s house and he was still having fun; I couldn’t ask him to leave. I looked in my backpack. I had pen, pencil, some watercolors, but no blank paper.

 

It seemed like a funny idea—to make a cartoon about finally being in a social situation but engaging in a thoroughly antisocial activity—a cartoon that acknowledged my foolishness but demonstrated a resistance to giving it up.

 

I wasn’t actually trying to be antisocial, of course. [I’m not an asshole – I’m just awkward]. I’d break from what I was doing whenever someone walked up and expressed an interest in talking to me. Maybe – on some level – I was even doing it with that outcome as my goal. Maybe it was an effort to interact one-on-one without having to feel like I was somehow monopolizing someone; it might have been a subconscious move to interact without having to insert myself into a crowd and feel out of place. (It’s cliché and childish but – just about everywhere I go – I still regularly feel that I don’t quite fit in or belong).

 

So I worked on this at the house, at the bar we all went to afterward, and then back at Pete’s.

 

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Epilogue: This is one of the few things I’ve sold really cheap. To a kid I met in downtown St. Pete during my one Indie Market experience. He really liked a lot of my stuff and especially this one. He had one of those huge backpacks that transient/traveler kids tend to have, so when he asked of there was anyway i could accept just $12 for it, I figured that was probably a pretty decent chunk of his net worth. Besides, when it comes to pricing my art – it’s got very little to do with money. I mean – don’t get me wrong, it is how I pay my bills so I do need to make a certain amount each month, but (after that) it’s not about money – it’s about personal valuation, self-esteem, and confidence. I’ve been encouraged not to give things away which is something I was initially doing anytime someone expressed an interest or even when they actually made an offer to buy something. (And I still do it occasionally). ‘Cause it’s uncomfortable. It’s foreign. Coming up in punk rock – we’re not supposedto make money off our creativity. I still feel guilty sometimes when somebody asks how much I want for something. I’ll usually tell them a number that’s only two-thirds or so of what I actually had in mind. But then when they buy it without blinking, I feel dumb for not just saying the actual price I had in mind (especially when I’m struggling financially).
Although “struggling” is a little of an overstatement. I might *stress* but – so far – everything has always worked out for the best. In the six months since I moved out of Tranquil Shores, I haven’t failed to pay for essentials yet. Things are good. Things are okay.

 

Moving Boxes (and Little Else)

August 26, 2013

"Moving Boxes (and Little Else)." 5/24/13. Tempera and pen on paper. 12x16".
“Moving Boxes (and Little Else).” 5/24/13. Tempera and pen on paper. 12×16″.

She might be scared, but that has nothing to do with me, my choices, my attitude, or my … how I’ve been.
I’m ambitious and I have confidence but moving out starts the ticking of the clock. It sets the deadline for my success or the date of my failure. Not moving out is what I’m comfortable with. But how long is it okay for me to stall intimate relationships so that I can enjoy myself (and do the things I want to without worry)?
Is it okay for me to be okay? Complacency. Fear. Priorities. GROWING UP. I understand far less than I let on. Strange that someone with all the answers in interactions has nothing but questions when alone.

That’s the text within this piece – painted in my Friday expressive art therapy group at Tranquil Shores. It was getting closer to the time Heather and I had talked about picking up and moving to Jacksonville. We were bickering a lot. I had asked her what was really going on. When she failed to come up with anything, I suggested that maybe she was scared about moving to a new city. After all, it wasn’t me. I’m itinerant! I’m punk! All we do is move. We have no roots. “I don’t live anywhere!” She, on the other hand, had never moved to a new city before so she was scared and that was making her irritable. Obviously.

But this was expressive art therapy and (in therapy) we don’t look at what’s wrong with other people, we look at ourselves. So that’s what I tried to do as I painted and – when I started writing – all of this suddenly came out of me.

God dammit. It was totally me. I was terrified. If I moved to Jacksonville with Heather, I’d suddenly be responsible for rent and utilities and who knows what else. I had been out of (inpatient) treatment for three months and thus far was doing great. I was supporting myself without having to give in to reality and get a real job. (Which – in hindsight – I realize may not have been all that impressive a feat considering that I had absolutely no bills to pay). But if I moved to Jacksonville and came up short on money for bills one month, all of a sudden, I’d have to admit that I was wrong. I’d have to get a job and acknowledge that I couldn’t support myself creatively…

Maybe I should just break it off and stay in Bradenton and live with Taylor’s family forever…? I don’t need a girlfriend or to be an adult or…

God dammit.

“Moving boxes and little else” is an acknowledgment that I had moved more times than I could count but was terrified to move forward.

But I did! And – so far – so good.

This piece is important to me because the process of creating it really was revelatory. I had spend a lot time thinking about this stuff and had gotten nowhere. After I made this piece, the bickering between Heather and I stopped completely. It’s pretty remarkable how much garbage sometimes lurks just below the surface (and how badly it can fuck me up). This piece is proof that art is essential to the maintenance of my mental health.

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Here’s the song I quoted in this entry. It’s from the new Dead Mechanical album out soon on Toxic Pop (who split released the last DM full-length with Traffic Street (that’s my label, you guys!)) When I lived in DC, I spent a lot of time in Baltimore. When I wasn’t copping or shooting heroin, I was usually at a Dead Mechanical show. (Sometimes both!) But getting to see them play all the time was definitely one of the best things about living up there.

Here’s another song from the same record. Just ’cause.

Hit the Toxic Pop website to check out the album art (by Julie Benoit!) and pre-order the LP, which starts shipping next week. (I know the site says that it starts shipping in early August, but Mike (Toxic Pop) sent out an update changing the shipping date due to delays at the pressing plant).

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This painting is currently for sale. Or – if you’re not a big spender – you can pick up a signed and framed (behind glass) print/poster that’s the same size as the original.

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