A Plume of My Own Cigarette Smoke

March 27, 2014

I drove past a bridge this morning that was so beautiful that I caught myself actually exclaim, “holy shit,” out loud. If I needed any evidence that I’m not the miserable, cynical little shithead of years past, I think that might be it.

Here’s a painting and a “story.”

"A Plume of My Own Cigarette Smoke." 2/20/14. Acrylic, spray, and watercolor paints, food coloring, and ink. 36x48".
“A Plume of My Own Cigarette Smoke.” 2/20/14. Acrylic, spray, and watercolor paints, food coloring, and ink. 36×48″.

My first large, expressive painting after I decided to leave my girlfriend, break my lease, buy a van, and devote myself entirely – not only to the creation of art – but to traveling the country, chasing after whatever opportunity may come along and getting serious about building a real life and career as a professional artist.

I’m happy with this painting as “art,” less so insomuch as it’s a personal artifact. The whole thing was fueled by a sense of inadequacy and complimented by anxiety and fear as I wrapped up the loose ends in my personal life and prepared to embark on the new course I had charted for myself. A lot of my art is chaotic and busy but – in this case – I was adding to it and making changes everyday (for more than two weeks!) because I just didn’t feel like it was enough.

There’s a good deal of small print spread around this piece, addressing a veritable shit ton of emotionally-bananas nonsense.  Regarding the large caption (“Sometimes I’ll see a plume of my own cigarette smoke in my peripheral and mistake it for an approaching human; so – NO – I wouldn’t say that I’m all that lonely”):

“I don’t think I’ve felt lonely since I started this. I wrote that shit in my phone a month ago and pulled it out [just now] to show the world how god damn clever I am. It was real when I thought it though but that was before I even broke up with my girlfriend.”

One of the primary objectives from my continuing care treatment plan reviews was always to go out and interact with HUMAN BEINGS more often. The night I wrote this, I went to see some bands play at Rain Dogs but was (of course) set up to sell prints and working on this painting as well. At one point, it was actually in my lap as I painted in a corner. I realized it and scribbled, “I’m out but I’m holding a four-foot canvas. AREN’T I QUIRKY?!?!” (Because I’m still not comfortable simply existing in a crowd. It makes me anxious to be seen when my presence doesn’t have an obvious purpose). Painting, or selling something, gives me one.

Between starting and finishing this painting, I met a girl that I maybe kinda sorta like a little bit. The story of our first two nights together is thoroughly documented in my EPIC POEM, “The Long Con.” On that second night though, when I FOLLOWED HER SIGNAL and made my move (only to be shot down!) I was pretty confused. At the same time, it was a relief to know that I could just hang out with her and not worry about whether I was saying or doing the right things to eventuate our sleeping together that night. After all, did I really even like her? Maybe I just wanted to feel validated by getting her to like me…

“It’s sort of a relief, it’s nothing that matters, it’s just insecurity, it doesn’t add up to shit. The day I understand anything at all… whatever. BUT HOW COME I LOOK OVER AND SHE’S SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT? WHAT DOES SHE KNOW THAT I DON’T?”

For the most part, I was able to sort of laugh off what, in that moment, I perceived as rejection. (It helped that a friend had told me she was only interested in girls). Even still, I don’t get all that bold that often. I usually find a way to guarantee that there’s a green light before I put my fragile little ego on the line like I did. The aftershock of the incident had me feeling a little shaky. This was the eve of a much bolder risk; this was the night before I started the next phase of my life. My next scribble said, “I’m leaving tomorrow and scared and on edge and cry and shoot drugs.” While I didn’t actually cry and I definitely didn’t shoot any drugs, that’s the kind of self-pity/doubt that I was slipping in and out of. (Girls are DANGEROUS for me).

I was still struggling to find happiness in my painting. I was trying too hard. When I finally went back to basics and scratched out SOME FUNNY FACES, I had an epiphany: “I am reinvigorated by funny faces. Sometimes I try to expand and grow as an artist. FUCK THAT! Write what you know (my own mental instability); paint what you know (funny faces).” I started to feel better immediately. Not that that stopped me from finding new and exciting ways to fuck up or otherwise complicate my life! Within a day or so, I had cause to add…

“I’m in the middle of a 61-day crystal/herb spiritual healing. I was told that my [ultimate] spiritual goal should be “to be an excellent father” even though I said I didn’t think I wanna have kids [‘cause I’m too self-absorbed / preoccupied to ever be a decent father]. Long story short, cumming on her face tonight seemed too IMPERSONAL so – between the two things – I decided to make her the first girl I’ve ever intentionally cum inside of. She wasn’t mad but I’m OUT OF MY MIND. (Her too).”

So now I was mixed up and sleeping with four girls but only excited about one of them and – in moments – questioning even the authenticity of my feelings for her. BECAUSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND MY OWN BRAIN SOMETIMES. And I definitely have trouble trusting my feelings. AND I’M EMOTIONALLY FICKLE! As I concluded with my in-painting journal:

“I keep trying to get girls to fall in love with me AND IT KEEPS WORKING. And then I sort of lose interest and feel like an asshole. It’s not like I’m fully planning it that way but it keeps happening and I should probably know better by now. MAYBE I FINALLY DO??”

 I stopped and seriously considered it. “Am I done? Do I finally get it? Am I ready to stop fucking around and validating myself by (as I love to put it) tricking girls into thinking I’m worthwhile?”

“J/K LOL,” I added, and my painting was finished.

October 2024 update: This painting was up in a Chicago gallery until it was scheduled to be in an exhibit I had booked elsewhere. A friend of mine in Chicago went to pick it up for me as I was in some other state at the time. About a week later, I was scheduled to arrive in Chicago to pick it up but two nights before I got there, my friend’s then (shitty) girlfriend got mad at him for some (unimportant) reason. She then moved all of his things out of their home (including my/this painting) and into the back alley by the dumpsters. Even though she had no issues with me, knew it was mine (not his), and knew I was coming to get it in just two days. She did it to punish him by (hopefully) making me mad at him. I was instead, of course, only furious with her.

When she told him not to come home at all that night, he didn’t. (He didn’t know at the time what she’d done with his things). He returned in the morning and found out. Thankfully, everything he owned was still there. But my painting had been taken.

To this day, I don’t know who took it. If by some miracle, the person who took it (or has otherwise come into possession of it) one day reads this, I’d love to hear from you. (EVEN IF YOU’RE NOT INTERESTED IN GIVING IT BACK). It would be nice to at least know that it’s with someone who appreciates it. Or even to know that some other artist took it and painted over it (as much as that might sting). I “just want closure!” I’m not gonna compare this situation to losing a child but… y’know… a LITTLE BIT.

If you know what happened to this painting, please write to me. If you’d like to buy a 12×16-inch print, please visit the webstore!

The Long Con

March 26, 2014

Remember when I wrote something along the lines of, “I just spent three hours writing poetry in a coffee shop so I figured it’s about time I grew my first beard?” Well, here’s the product of that (from February 13th and 14th).

BUT FIRST – because I know how you kids like pictures – here’s a photo of me working on “Another Painting  By My Favorite Artist,” the night before it was finished.

Me 'n' Mikey Twohands, workin' on some art. Photo by Rosaly Natera.
Me ‘n’ Mikey Twohands, makin’ art. Photo by Rosaly Natera.

—–

“The Long Con”

She was drunk and I flirted with her.
She said we were friends on Facebook.
I said I didn’t know.
But I knew.
Just a little bit.

 She had liked one of my photos.
I think I liked one of hers.
The internet is fun.

I got back to Hembrough’s apartment and asked him for the scoop on this girl he worked with.
He told me that she was gay. Or that she was bi.
“More into girls” and “done with guys.”
I smiled.
“I can work with that.”

At the bar,
When she acknowledged that she knew who I was,
I asked if she had seen my art and read my stories.
“Just Facebook.”
“Oh,
So you don’t actually know just how special I am yet.”
She said she had an idea.
“Scale of one to ten,” I asked.
She gave me a seven and a half.
Which was totally unacceptable.

I hit her up the next day.
“I’m leaving town soon. Let me know if you wanna hang out before I go.
I can TALK MORE AT YOU about how special I am.”
We met up that night. At the marina.
We walked around a little, talking, getting to know one another.

It was going well. We got along well. Connected on a lot of levels.
We related. Seemed to have similar worldviews. Mostly similar.
I liked her attitude generally. Her notions about the universe. How things work.
The brightness of her spirit.
At one point, I was overwhelmed by my adoration; I hugged her.
Her enthusiasm for an animal, a tree.
For living.

It struck me (and I told her) that, not so long ago,
I’d have thought that shit was retarded.

She told me about crystals.
It was awesome.

The next day, I wanted to see her again.
I asked her,
“If I don’t leave town until morning, would you wanna hang out tonight?”
I was really hoping she’d want to.
(And I kinda held off on leaving for just that reason).
For the chance of it.

She invited me over to her house.
I had intentionally waited until it was late enough –
When it wouldn’t make sense for us to go anywhere else.
I’m calculating like that.
But she didn’t lead me to her room.
The pretense of our late night meeting:
She said she wanted to see my new in-progress painting.
I brought it in and she pulled two chairs together, in the living room.
We arrived to a point of joking; the painting needed a literal silver lining.
I told her I’d do it. “I’ll do it right god damn now.” I threatened.
“I’ve got all this stuff in the van.”
“Do it,” she said.
“Well… um… do you… would you wanna paint with me?”
It was already after 2AM. She said yes.

We painted together as people filtered in and out of the house around us.
Kind of hanging out, doing their own thing, talking to us, but mostly we painted.
We would talk together, occasionally one or the other to someone else.
Some kids on the couch sniffed cocaine from a bag.
I walked by to change the music and they tried to hide the drugs.
“I don’t mind,” I told them as I returned to my painting.
“I was in middle school once too,” I whispered to her.
Cocaine is a funny joke.

We listened to pop punk and I talked passionately about self-loathing and cheerful melodies,
Grit and sparkle, light and dark.
I focused on my canvas as I worked.
A few times, I looked over and noticed her – beaming at me.
With that smile. The one that really says…
The kind that I interpret as: “I’m really into you.”
She had that kind of Radiant, Outstanding, Beaming smile.

I didn’t even know how to react to it.
It made me kinda nervous.

The night before:
When we said goodnight. I gave her a hug and she hugged me back really well.
Tightly.
When I let go – this is when I would have kissed her – she said,
“I think you’re really cool”
Or something funny like that.
I smiled and I took it as a “don’t even try” sort of signal.

 

But tonight, I had been wondering,
“Is this girl into me? Is she not?”
When I saw her beaming at me like that, I decided:
“This girl is twenty-two.
She doesn’t know what she wants from me.
She wants whatever it is I decide she wants from me.”
I asked her if she wanted to come outside with me while I smoked a cigarette.
Before I lit it
(Because she doesn’t like the smell of smoke
(Especially menthols))
I pulled her in toward me. Hugged her. Embraced her. Put my hand on the back of her head.
She did the same, really pulling herself in close.
But when I started to pull slightly back,
To tilt her head, to kiss her,
She said,
“I think you’re really special,”
And I laughed.
“Is that your way of saying ‘Don’t try anything?'”
“Yes…
“I think so.”

Okay!
Fair enough.

I didn’t feel rejected. I felt kind of relieved because –
You know –
There was no longer any pressure of
Having to have sex with this girl.
It wasn’t gonna happen; we could just be…
We could just be buddies.
Just fucking hang out, paint, whatever.

 

So we did. That was the rest of the night and then I left.
But I remember thinking:
I don’t know what’s what, I can’t figure out shit
But I feel relieved.
Because I’m just trying to sleep with this girl because of my own insecurity.
To show myself that I can.
That this girl would want me.
Like any girl would want me.
It’s a stupid game of validation.
I didn’t need to have sex.
It’s not like wanted to FUCK her.
It’s not that.
It’s just… what I do.
I validate myself through sex.
So I felt relieved. And I noted it.

But still – if she doesn’t want that
WHY IS SHE SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT?
(It was an intense smile).
WHAT DOES SHE KNOW THAT I DON’T???

 In the morning, I thought about her,
About her rejecting me,
And a big smile crept across my face.
I think I might like this girl.
Even if she doesn’t wanna let me do TERRIBLE THINGS to her.
Maybe that’s even part of it.
I told her so.
She reciprocated.
And indicated
That she doesn’t let people do “terrible things” to her
Until she knows that they’re for real.
Or real friends.
Something like that.
And then with a flirty sort of emoticon.
Which isn’t especially poetic.
But this is 2014.
So it’s cool.
And I was re-energized.
It was cute and it made sense.
I was re-energized for The Long Con.

Hembrough and I like to talk about everything.
Really honestly, sincerely but
We also like to play
(As anyone who’s seen our Kendra Sheetz video knows)
Off the whole “fratboy, fuck-yeah, pickin’ up girls” thing.
Any effort to win a girl – for sex, for love
Even if it’s genuine – more than a sex thing
(Which in my case, it always is)
(Sex is the least important facet of my operation)
It requires a degree of skill, of deception.
A girl has to be tricked
Into believing that I’m worthwhile.
If the effort spans more than a single evening,
That’s what Hembrough and I like to call
THE LONG CON. 

So
We’ve kept in touch; we’ve been talking.
Things are nice.
But I realized last night,
(When I didn’t get all that far out of town)
I was wishing she was with me.
Wishing she was there,
Wishing that I was falling asleep next to her.
I didn’t want to have sex,
I just wanted to fall asleep with her.
Which is really sweet
And…
Unusual.
I said I wanted to do “terrible things” to her
Because….
Well, the things I do are pretty terrible.
And girls are turned on by that; that works.
But THAT’S not what I had tried;
Not what I had led off with.
I had tried to kiss her.
Which isn’t terrible; it’s just… sweet.
And I realized that – since breaking up with Heather –
I have not done anything sweet.
Good, welcome, appreciated, but not sweet.
The last girl: I fucked four times;
I kissed her no times.
But I wanted to kiss this girl…
Is that because the dynamic between us
Is more of a personal / getting-to-know-you
And not a “we’re in this to fuck so let’s fuck”
Or is it because maybe there’s something else there?

It’s hard to say.
It’s always hard to know what’s real with me.

Is it just because she denied me?
Do I want what I can’t have? Is it that?
I don’t know.
I told Chris: I might like this girl.
I might actually be developing feelings for her.
But is that totally crazy? I don’t know
I don’t know
But I’m enjoying it for what it is right now

I’ve left town but I told her I wanted to call her,
Talk to her about these things.
I don’t know to what extent.
But she’s on my mind.
She’s the girl that’s occupying my thoughts.

Poetry By Girls I’ve Brutally Fucked

February 20, 2014

"Poetry By Girls I've Brutally Fucked." 2/7/14. Acrylic paint and ink. 12x24".
“Poetry By Girls I’ve Brutally Fucked.” 2/7/14. Acrylic paint and ink. 12×24″.

I painted this as the front and back covers for a split 7-inch by Apocalypse Meow and Todd Congelliere, coming soon from Rad Girlfriend Records. It’s the first time I’ve done a commissioned piece in my regular/preferred expressive style instead of taking the more labored cartoon/comic approach.

The caption says: “I was talking to this girl I fucked pretty brutally. She said she wrote a poem about it. A poem about my fucking. That made me smile.”

I figured that might be a little much for a pop punk record so I replaced it with the band names for the actual record layout.

I hadn’t actually seen the poem yet when I made this, but I’ve read it since.  Turns out it’s only partially about “my fucking.” It’s actually about way more than that and way more beautiful and affectionate and insightful than I feel like I deserve. It’s really great and – in that way – makes me feel kind of shitty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. We had sex, it was fun; we hung out, it was fun; and then we repeated that cycle a few times. I guess friendship and fucking don’t really go together without feelings developing.

I’ve been sleeping around lately, getting involved with different girls to different degrees; I’m probably asking for trouble. I’m probably about to fuck myself – one way or another. There’s a lot more I could write about all that but I don’t wanna push myself to be too honest / transparent right now. That feels okay.

There’s this one girl – I wrote (what I guess I’d call) a long prose poem about her and about my experience with her in the week after we met. I’d developed feelings of my own for her [how novel!] But I was conscious of the fact that – this sort of thing – it does happen fairly often with me. I wrote a little bit about that as well:

I’ve got these fucking warm, fuzzy feelings for a lot of people. My male friends – I love them, I hug them, all that. But when I have these feelings for girls (it doesn’t matter how many) I love them and I also want to kiss them, sleep with them. I don’t think that’s wrong or weird but you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to have feelings for one person that are strong enough that you don’t even want to connect with another person in that way. That seems like bullshit.

I don’t know… maybe I’m just selfish. Love and sex are all twisted up and make for difficultly-navigable terrain. I just wanna love and fuck without being confused.

28

November 8, 2013

"28" 11/5/13. Acrylic pain, food coloring, ink. 18x24" stretched canvas.
“28” 11/5/13. Acrylic paint, food coloring, ink. 18×24″ stretched canvas.

This is how bad at relationships I am: I wait until twenty-four hours after things start to get better to share my painting from when things were still fucked up – thereby risking that they get fucked up again. Actually, that’s bullshit – I don’t think this is going to fuck anything up. I’m just not comfortable sharing this ’cause I think it makes me sound petty and immature. I don’t need to write a statement for this piece because it’s got all the text it needs right on the canvas. Here’s what it says…

—–

I didn’t cry. Well, no, when it got bad, I did. But pre-addiction, if I cried, it was usually fake. To show a girl how hurt I was. It was emotional manipulation. But at my worst, I’d break down and cry. Then I went away to treatment and I watched other people cry. But I didn’t. Still “in,” a year later, I started. Like all the time. I was a mess but I was getting better. Then I “got” “better” and I stopped.

I have an idea for a cartoon. It won’t be hard to make. People will like it.  But I just wanna cry. But I don’t do that anymore. I can still force myself. I can fake it. But I don’t do it for real. I’m not holding back tears because I’m not in the kind of emotional state in which they can even begin to form.

The question of “what I wanted to do for my birthday” never came up. Maybe that’s my fault, but there were already other plans and I didn’t want to be disagreeable. Am I being crazy though to feel like I should have never been in that position? Is it unreasonable to think I should have been asked?

She’s not at all mean or selfish. She had good intent. But this gets to what was under my skin the other day. That we just might not be on the same page. We might not be right for each other. And that’s what I’m actually upset about.

On the ride home, I wanted her and told her so. She said she had to be up early for work in the morning. I guess I understand that but – at the same time – it’s my birthday and I guess I sort of thought she’d want to do whatever for me. And it makes me sad that she didn’t just want me the way that I wanted her.

I don’t think it’s supposed to be this way. I think something’s missing. She says otherwise but I can’t imagine that she gets what she needs out of me / this relationship. Which is why I feel guilty whenever I bring this stuff up. It’s not like I’m so great.

This is the story stripped of all its detail (at its vaguest). I write that way for myself. To keep the focus on my feelings. Even though I know it’ll be less satisfying for anyone else. Less “entertaining.” I enjoy an audience but I won’t cater to it. Not with this kind of work anyway.

I enjoy the sentiment of self-pity but not when its point of origin is with me. This feels like self-pity and it makes me feel embarrassed.

I wonder what I’m saying without realizing it. What I want this to say (or think it says) and what it actually says are probably wildly different. [I’m probably an asshole].

—–

So that’s the text on the canvas… Have I embarrassed myself enough for one day? Great! Here are links to the other pieces in what might as well be considered the “series” to which this one belongs.

Eradicating the Threat of Happiness (One Bold Decision at a Time)

November 1, 2013

"Eradicating the Threat of Happiness (One Bold Decision at a Time)." 11/1/13. Acrylic and spray paints, resin sand, ink, food coloring, fabric dye. 30x24" stretched canvas.
“Eradicating the Threat of Happiness (One Bold Decision at a Time).” 11/1/13. Acrylic and spray paints, resin sand, ink, food coloring, fabric dye. 30×24″ stretched canvas.

I was fourteen the first time I got kicked out of the house. The next few years, often enough, I’d move back in with my mom or dad, but never for very long. Fourteen’s when I had my Macaulay Culkin/Good Son epiphany – that I can do whatever I want. From then on, I was done with curfews and rules. When I moved in with my dad, I regularly came home to an empty house – which meant I didn’t even have to come home. Nobody was keeping tabs on me. I liked it. I liked not having to answer to anyone.

The thought that I might not be cut out for “sharing a life” has occurred to me before. I’m not great at making concessions. Doing what somebody else wants me to do instead of what I want to do isn’t something I’m good at. I like being away – in whatever city – and living out of a backpack. It’s an adventure. Nobody gives a fuck where I am or what time I’ll be home. I can go wherever I want, sleep here, sleep there. It doesn’t matter. The last time I did that was in Sarasota, for “No Real Than You Are.” Things eventually got ten kinds of fucked up but that’s a different thing. The being-on-my-own/adventure part was awesome. I had a fucking blast when I first got there.

On our way to Sarasota, a Friday, Heather and I weren’t getting along. Things got better but then, Saturday, got worse. I pitched the idea of “breaking up” for the first time. It got really intense and emotional but we figured it out. On Sunday, she went back to Jacksonville, leaving me in Sarasota for a month to make the movie. Riding around town each day, having places to go and things to do, I felt so alive.  I felt really free. I started thinking about if I’d happier on my own. But I’m not ever on my own. “Pretend for a second that I left Heather,” I thought, “how would that play out?” I already knew. I’d run around for a minute, get into a little trouble, have a little fun, and wind up in a relationship with another girl within a month. That’s how it always goes. I fall in love way too fast. And if I’m going to be in a relationship anyway, it should be with Heather… right? I had to think about that. Why did I love Heather? Of course she’s [insert romantic/positive adjectives here] but if I’m really being honest it’s not about the laundry list of nice traits. A lot of people are smart, pretty, sweet, [whatever]. Admitting it to myself made me feel more self-centered than I’d ever felt in my life, but what I most loved about Heather: She loves me.

“So, Sam – what do you look for in a girl?”

…um…  An affinity for… me?

That’s most of it anyway. She loves me enough (and she’s stable enough) that – should something go awry – she’s not gonna lose her shit or do anything really fucked up to hurt me. If we break up, I’m just gonna date somebody else. And there’s no guarantee that that girl will love me as much or be as even-keeled. I’d have to be crazy to leave her.

That was July. In August, I told her about it. I didn’t know how she’d react, but the next day she said something about being more in love with me than ever. When she says stuff like that to me, my kneejerk response is always “WHAT’D I DO??” Like the answers to most questions, I had to drag it out of her, but she said, “Because of what you told me last night.” “The thing about me loving you ‘cause you love me?” I asked. “Seriously?” I hadn’t exactly expected her to find it endearing.

[Quick interjection: For the first time, it’s occurred to me that she may have only said she “loved me more than ever” because (in light of what I had just told her) that would make me love her more… If that’s the case though, I don’t think it was conscious].

Shit’s been fucked up for the better part of two weeks. Not in a loud/battlefield kinda way, I’ve just felt seriously unloved. But, yesterday morning, things did get hostile.

I’m not happy and she doesn’t love me – or doesn’t treat me like it anyway – so why the fuck am I even bothering?

Tuesday, Wednesday, and one day last week, I didn’t sleep in the bed. It felt wrong; it was way too intimate for us. I’m not connected to this person – I’m not gonna sleep beside her.

I had a lot on my mind but I didn’t wanna let my emotions call the shots. I was making plans but wanted to be sure that they still made sense when I was a little more relaxed. I wanted to be certain that I wasn’t acting out of anger or hurt. After all, I love her. If I’m about to break up with her, I need to do it in a loving way. It shouldn’t be cavalier – if it’s really what’s right for me then I wouldn’t do it in a way that hurts her. I took some time to sort everything out and when I felt I was in a good place, I told her I needed to talk before she left for work. I let her take her time getting ready and continued to sort out my feelings, in my head and on paper.

“My plan is to move out at the end of the month. I’m not happy, I don’t feel like you love me, and I feel like we’re completely disconnected.” She said she didn’t feel that way at all. If she was upset by this news though, she didn’t show it. That’s perfectly in line with what I’ve come to expect and a perfect example of my biggest issue with her: an unwillingness (or at least hesitancy) to share how she’s feeling. She barely said anything in response; she just stood there. And then I’d stand silently too, waiting for something that never came, before finally saying something else or asking her to please respond.

The whole thing just reinforced my idea that we might not be compatible. That we couldn’t communicate. When I ran out of things to say, we just stood there. Even if it was ending, I wanted to be loving. I gave her a hug. She hugged back the same way she always does: just barely. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and she left for work.

I thought about it all day as I painted. I’ve written a lot about it the last few days, but I wrote more on my canvas. A lot of it’s been obscured by paint but – of the (still visible) statements that strike me as having genuine relevance – here’s what it says:

I wanna live alone in a city where no one wants me.  I wanna be a stranger.  I’m so much more interesting when you’ve just met me. I want a recurring guest role (for just one season) in your life. And yours. And yours. I like long distance friendships. I like sex for the first time. It’s only been 9 months I’ve known her. It’s only been ten months I’ve known me. I love her but I don’t know what the fuck that means. What’re the implications? What’s my obligation? Is this about me or about her? If I’m getting an ego again, then I’m a fucking joke. Because I am a joke. I’m fucking Halloween every day. I wanna wake up alone on my birthday. I wanna go days on end. I still don’t know what’s real or right. I’m insane. That’s part of the deal.

Late last night, we finally had a back and forth conversation. “When I said I was planning on moving out at the end of the month, it’s not like I was committing to anything. That was just my notice, in case I’m still unhappy. I don’t actually make plans because I have no idea where I’ll be, how I’ll feel, one moment to the next.” In the end, she said if she was gonna make an effort that I had to try too. That I couldn’t still be upset. “I can’t just flip a switch in an instant and be okay. Then again, there’s a good chance I’ll wake up tomorrow and be totally fine.”

Which is exactly what happened.

And today, everything’s been okay, so I’m okay. Today. Right now.

Later? We’ll see… But I’m gonna try and I can already see that she’s trying so I’m hoping for the best.

There’s a good few things that come up in the text on the canvas that I didn’t begin to touch with this statement. But I wanted to push this out into the world already ’cause I’m ready to move past it. The parts that really hold water – I’ll have ample opportunity to look at later on down the line.

I’m not sure I really even accept the concept of a personality disorder but … Do other people really not think / behave / feel this way? I kind of have a hard time believing that. Then again, I go back and forth with it. I mean – obviously – I’m not ashamed (or I wouldn’t talk about it as much as I do) but…

  • Signed, limited edition (#/100) 12×16″ Eradicating the Threat of Happiness prints are available in my webstore. Each print is packaged in a sealed Crystal Clear acid/lignin-free plastic archival sleeve, with a heavy backing board, and a single sheet artist’s statement on the reverse.
  • The original painting sold January 4, 2014.
  • Please write for information regarding the availability of other original pieces.

Face Thing

October 27, 2013

"Face Thing." 12/12/12. Oil pastel and watercolor. 12x34".
“Face Thing.” 12/12/12. Oil pastel and watercolor. 12×34″.

For a long time, I thought this was the most embarrassing thing I’d ever made. I was hesitant to even call it “art.”

—–

Immediately after figuring out how I felt about myself, I decided to see if I could use the same approach to figure out how I felt about the girl. With my non-dominant hand, I wrote until I had completely filled the two sheets in front of me (taped together earlier for some other purpose). My only pauses were to change colors and even that was done without real consideration – a quick swap when I felt the urge.  I tried my best to be totally blunt, perfectly honest, and entirely concentrated on my feelings. I didn’t want to rationalize, bullshit, or otherwise fuck myself up. I wanted what came out of me to be real. I’m not sure whether or not it was…

Some parts were written in such a way that they wouldn’t make sense to anyone else – and there was no punctuation in any of it – so I’ve made a few minor edits.

—–

Your first group, the buddhist monk we had coming was running late. I was manic but I caught myself and asked the group to keep me in check. I didn’t want to be a spazz on your first day even though I preemptively disliked you. (You seemed too level-headed and assembled to like me).

I didn’t like the way the other guys talked about (and sometimes to) you. We didn’t talk much but you were nicer than I’d assumed and smarter too. When I ran into you after getting kicked out, you were so sweet to me. I thought, “I’d like to have sex with her.”

I didn’t really understand friendship but ,when I came back, we became friends. It was outstanding. We were exceptional. I liked it when we’d touch but knew that was the limit. We had both made that mistake in treatment before. Our counselors said they were worried about us getting too close. We talked about it and you said, “If this were last year, we’d be in trouble.”

We respected the physical boundaries we were given (for the most part) but got carried away otherwise – we loved each other too much. I didn’t know what was real. A pretty girl, an interesting boy, codependency issues, rehab and limited options… Was it love or something like it, or just compulsion and fear?

You didn’t seem too interested when I presented my life story. (Punishment for how I acted at your first step?) It hurt. That and more. It got worse. I needed to talk. I still don’t understand that night. I  got mean enough to get rid of you when all I really wanted was for your door to open.

I couldn’t handle it. I told the truth and you denied everything but, in between, I realized that I really did care about you, contrary to what I thought and said when I first spilled our guts to everyone, while you were away. It gets worse: I think i love you. I admit, I’m still not 100% but I’m going with it – even if you hate me. And not ’cause I wanna be tragic.

I still want to have sex with you but, mostly, I want to be friends.

For real.

—–

Two months later, when I had my coin out, the staff decided that we should have an “art show” – everything I had made since arriving (more than one hundred pieces) was hung up on display in the group room. Each had a title card with a short statement. The one next to this piece said, “If this thing actually ends up on the wall at my coin-out then I am way fucking braver than I have ever suspected. And way more honest. Well, honest about disclosing my art and my thoughts from the past (as evidenced in my art). There’s very little that’s honest about this thing in and of itself.” I’m not totally sure how I feel about that. The things I said with this piece were definitely honest when I wrote them… By February though, I had convinced myself that I had been seriously deluding myself – to such an extent that “the truth” was something completely beyond my reach. Today, I think that was probably an example of my “putting walls back up” to protect myself. My feelings were real and I shouldn’t have tried to discount them just because things played out a certain way and I now (then) felt silly about them.

—–

tipjarThis piece was later cut up and merged with its title card and a related piece I’ve also thought of as “embarrassing.” It’s listed for sale in my webstore but – if anyone wants it – you can name your price. Seven dollars should cover postage and (beyond that) I don’t care about the money.

Update (a couple hours later): Wow – kinda funny. I just looked at the Storenvy listing for this piece and it has a different statement that I wrote back when I first listed it for sale (sometime in August, I think). It’s interesting how much my attitudes and perceptions shift over time.

Why I Fail

"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

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