The Ringling presents: “Art from the Heart: Connectivity” – a celebration of the extraordinary creativity, remarkable talent, and resilience of neurodivergent artists as they navigate their unique challenges through self-expression. This exhibition highlights the transformative power of art as a medium for storytelling, healing, and connection. Each piece is a testament to the artist’s voice and vision, inviting viewers to engage with diverse perspectives.
In partnership with Streets of Paradise, an organization dedicated to combating homelessness with dignity and grace, this exhibit emphasizes our collective commitment to inclusivity and empowerment. By fostering connections through creativity, we celebrate not only individual artistry but also the bonds that unite us. In a world where connection can often be overlooked, this exhibition serves as a reminder of the strength found in shared experiences and the beauty that emerges when we embrace each other’s journeys. Together, we can create a tapestry of understanding and compassion through art.
The museum’s located at 5401 Bayshore Rd but the grounds are pretty huge so let me give you some more SPECIFIC directions. Both the exhibit and the opening reception are in the Ting Tsung and Wei Fong Chao Center for Asian Art (which is the big building with the emerald green facade). The exhibit is in the gallery on the ground floor. The reception is in the Chao Lecture Hall, which is up on the third floor. The reception will be CATERED and runs from 5:30 to 7:30pm. After that, the exhibit will run every day from 10am to 5pm.
The Ringling presents: “Art from the Heart: Connectivity” – a celebration of the extraordinary creativity, remarkable talent, and resilience of neurodivergent artists as they navigate their unique challenges through self-expression. This exhibition highlights the transformative power of art as a medium for storytelling, healing, and connection. Each piece is a testament to the artist’s voice and vision, inviting viewers to engage with diverse perspectives.
In partnership with Streets of Paradise, an organization dedicated to combating homelessness with dignity and grace, this exhibit emphasizes our collective commitment to inclusivity and empowerment. By fostering connections through creativity, we celebrate not only individual artistry but also the bonds that unite us. In a world where connection can often be overlooked, this exhibition serves as a reminder of the strength found in shared experiences and the beauty that emerges when we embrace each other’s journeys. Together, we can create a tapestry of understanding and compassion through art.
The museum’s located at 5401 Bayshore Rd but the grounds are pretty huge so I made this map JUST FOR YOU to help you find your way.
I’ll update this if I find out otherwise, but here’s my current understanding. Admission to the museum is a little PRICEY but admission to the gardens is only $5. And that’s all you need to see this exhibit as the gallery hosting this exhibit is open to anyone/everyone on the grounds. Or you can just go on a Monday when it’s free. (Every Monday, the entirety of the museum is free to the public). It’s also free (always) to anyone with a SNAP, WIC, or other EBT card.
Museum hours are 10am to 5pm Friday through Wednesday. On Thursday, they stay open until 8pm.
After packing my entire life into my car, stashing it on the fifth floor of a parking garage, and preparing to go to my grandparents’ ALF to wait out the hurricane (‘cause the building is “hurricane-proof” and has generators), my ex got around my many blocks (phone, email, social media) and begged me to give her ONE MORE CHANCE. And I brilliantly allowed her to come with me. It was fine (even GREAT) for that first night and then – the day of the hurricane – it became clear that nothing had changed and I was trapped in there with her.
It was torturous. To love someone so much, know it won’t work out, and then be stuck someplace together. And she just doesn’t get it. She still thought we were going to sleep together that second night, cuddled up, spooning on the couch. (There was no bed in the room we stayed in). I don’t know if she’s a sociopath or just has the emotional intelligence of a five year-old but I also know it DOESN’T REFLECT ESPECIALLY WELL ON ME that I was ever in love with this person or thought I wanted a life with her. I know I say this all the time but “we are attracted (and attractive) to people with similar levels of emotional health/maturity.” I would like to believe that my reluctance/refusal to engage with this anymore means that I’m getting better.
Anyway, it turned out that even though the hurricane made its initial landfall RIGHT HERE IN SARASOTA (less than a mile from my place), everything was alright. And nothing happened to my car. So I spent all day putting my life/home back together (just finished this minute) and I can LICK MY EMOTIONAL WOUNDS from the comfort of my home.
Things could have been worse. I need to remember to be grateful for what I’ve got. Friends (that helped me unload my car and then FED ME PIZZA), a home that I like, people all over that care about me, I’m clean, back to making art, and I don’t need to rebuild my life from scratch simply because of a natural disaster/GOD HATES ME. (Or maybe he doesn’t, seeing as how it worked out). But he PROBABLY does.
This was originally written simply as the caption for a TIKTOK VIDEO(I wonder if those words will ever not sound ridiculous to me?) because I’m currently operating under the belief that TikTok is my best shot at marketing myself/rebuilding my career, especially as long as I’m still just living in Sarasota. Here are the photos from the post for anyone that doesn’t wanna use that app.
Photo I took from the garage where I parked my car.That’s one of my dad’s sculptures front and center. He died in 2021.Where I write, draw, and do any computer-kinda work.Where I paint.Me, in bed, with a print that I stuck over my head, just to take this photo and make it more interesting. Because I’m both vain and self-promoting.
“What Makes Life Feel Worth Living.” 6/16/24. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.
This painting was essentially the product of my second month clean and single. To be fully honest, I was still pretty hung up on codependency issues and the fact that, for once, I didn’t have a girlfriend. I found myself experiencing kind a low-grade depression a lot of days, not really wanting to get out of bed. In my head, I kept thinking that finding a new girlfriend was the answer to all my problems but I knew that, really, that would just be a way to distract myself from my problems. In any case, I was too embarrassed to make a painting about that immediately following one about my ex. I pushed myself to really try to get at something deeper in my journal writing. It took a couple weeks and quite a few attempts before I felt like I got at anything remotely meaningful. That’s what’s written across this canvas (in the upper left and just to the left of the very bottom center).
I struggle a lot with meaning and purpose. “Does anything matter?” “What’s the point of doing anything?” “The world’s a mess,” “I’m a mess,” “is anybody really happy?” I don’t know the answers to those questions but – as long as I’m gonna not-kill-myself and keep living – I’ve gotta try. It’s really hard sometimes. I’m not alone but I feel like I am a lot of the time. One person can really make a difference in that. Whether it’s A GIRL PAYING ATTENTION TO ME or someone deciding to GIVE ME MONEY (for my artwork).
When I tell people about my first month clean and making art again, it’s a success story, mostly on account of the commissions I got from Rick, a stranger walking down the sidewalk. But because I was painting outside and because he stopped to talk to me and took an interest, it’s given me concrete reasons to keep painting and writing. Pretty random, very easily could have NOT happened.
It’s genuinely INCREDIBLE when someone tells me how much my art means to them (and I don’t wanna discount that) but when they PUT THEIR MONEY WHERE THEIR MOUTH IS, it’s crazy validating in a way that’s rivaled only by A HOT GIRL WANTING TO FUCK (or date) ME. (Which is totally unrelated and indicates just how broken I am but that’s an issue for other days). It says that what I’m doing has actual value worthy of supporting human life – MY life. That hard validation can bolster my spirit against any/all of the negative feelings I have that could otherwise overtake me.
Even when everything else is wrong, one well-timed “yes” can make all the difference. A thousand rejections are nothing against a few key “yeses.”
These things are small and inconsequential in a world that’s so random and meaningless but when nothing matters, we choose what matters and I choose what makes my life feel worth living.
Taking a chance is worthwhile. Saying “yes” to someone is meaningful. Helping another person, offering encouragement, supporting an artist (ESPECIALLY WHEN IT’S ME). These are things that count. We never know what small act might be HUGELY CONSEQUENTIAL for someone else.
I still don’t know if I’m going to be able to revive my art career and make a living like I was, but it’s working out so far thanks to just a few people and a few key moments and decisions. It reminds me of the last lyric from one of my favorite songs: “just one good thing, that’s all – sometimes that’s all it takes.”
I lined up a handful of commissions right out of the gate upon getting clean: paintings that I had no idea what they’d be but that were pre-paid-for before I even started them. Knowing that a painting is already sold while I’m working on it is really motivating. It gives me a push to get to work. That’s over (at least as of this moment; no one has pre-purchased my next painting). That makes me a little nervous but it’s also how most artists operate – not to mention the only way I’ll ever be able to amass enough paintings to ever have another exhibit. I’m on my own for the first time in a while and need to start hustling again – whether that’s going out on the street to paint in public while slinging prints or putting more effort and thought into my social media. Probably both. It used to come so easily to me but now it seems almost impossible – though much less so than it did even a month ago. One of the main reasons I stayed on drugs so long was because it was an excuse not to do anything else. I’m so afraid of trying and failing. But I’ve got to try. I’ve gotta put myself out there. And hopefully I’ll get the “yeses” I need to keep going.
I’m in danger of rambling now. I wanna say something about how those “yeses” are less-than-ideal external validation in the same way that female attention is, but that’s a subject for another time. The spirit of this painting was about the positive feelings that come making something meaningful that resonates with another person and the positive consequences of that other person’s response. Not everything needs to be overanalyzed. Nothing is perfect but sometimes little things spark joy and pride and feel an awful lot like fulfillment – even if only for a moment. And sometimes that’s enough.
The song quoted in my painting (on the little blue guy’s black t-shirt): “Precious on the Edge” by Drunken Boat
This painting has already been sold but limited edition 12×12″ signed, hand-numbered prints are available for purchase WHILE SUPPLIES LAST.
“Baby Dick Virgin.” 5/1/24. acrylic paint. 16×20″.
In the past, the smaller text in my paintings tended to be raw journals, scrawled onto the canvas in the moment. For this, my first painting in five years, I sort of typed out the story of the piece as I was going and, then, transcribed it to the canvas a little later. For that reason, the smaller text featured in the painting, essentially, is my artist’s statement for the piece. It says:
I left my girlfriend again but this time we didn’t get back together because there was some baby dick virgin waiting to pounce the second she was vulnerable and she says she likes that he looks at her like a puppy dog and even though she says she’ll never love him as much as she loves me AND THAT I’M HER SOULMATE, that because I don’t believe in soulmates and because he’s “ordinary,” maybe that would be safer for her. That’s all obviously FINE AND FUCKING DANDY except for the part that’s DRIVING ME UP THE GOD DAMN WALLS trying to decide if I miss her because I’m in love with her or if I’m just a lonely little codependent fuck who can’t stand the idea of being alive while there’s not a beautiful girl who is ACTIVELY in love with me.
It’s been two weeks since I wrote [the [preceding paragraph]. I wanna write about how I’ve FUCKED HER since then, how she took pictures of it, how her fat uncle of a boyfriend saw the pictures, forgave her, and then I FUCKED HER AGAIN (and then some). But that’s just pettiness and spite and me feeling like I got a win that I need to advertise. I’m not trying to get back together with her. I would very much like to destroy their relationship. Not just as a fuck you. I do still genuinely care about her and she’s not going to get better while she’s hiding from her issues in that joke of a rebound. She knows now that she can literally do anything and he will never drop her because he’s too pathetic and broken to ever think he could do any better. I’m VERY tempted to name this painting after him.
I ultimately did. After committing it to the canvas in giant letters, I wrote:
Choosing this title is the pettiest thing I’ve done in my work. But it’s SUCH a ridiculous choice that I couldn’t help it that the thought made me smile as much as it did. (And I argued with myself and consulted with friends but kept coming back to it, so I clearly needed to EXPEL THE VENOM so/before I could move on). I know it’s shitty, toxic masculinity and probably only highlights my own lack of self-esteem that I enjoyed winning a DICK MEASURING CONTEST as much as I did but – you know what? I never did shit to that dweeb and HE called ME from her phone to SCREAM at me for no fucking reason, at a time when I was already fragile as fuck. So fuck him – he gets what he gets and he can live with the world knowing that [redacted] he wasn’t MEASURING UP (in any way).
I promise this will be my last painting for a minute that’s secretly about HOW GREAT my own dick is. Though I’m sure it’s the first of many more that’s ACTUALLY about how fucking insecure I am, in spite of everything. BUT I’M GETTING BETTER (I swear). Today is day 23 [since I got clean again].
This next, final part is definitely less of a journal and more a defense. I anticipated some strong reactions as soon as I put the painting up on my social media and I guess I wanted to kind of preempt some of the criticism.
I’m pretty embarrassed by the sentiment of this painting but that feeling often indicates when I’m onto something that’s significant for me and/or will somehow be meaningful to other people. It also makes me feel like a little bit of a BULLY but it’s not as if I have some huge platform these days. The dink at hand might never even learn this painting exists. I feel a little guilty – even having her approval – that the previews I posted online already caused some discord in her family and anxiety for her but… I can’t control or really even concern myself with other people’s reactions. So long as I’m being honest and my work is authentic (even when partially powered by spite), I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
The painting went online and, sure enough, even with my hedging, I still got some negative responses – even stronger than what I’d feared. One person told me they no longer wanted a painting of mine that they owned and asked for an address that they could ship it back to! And I’m sure there were plenty more who chose the “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” path. But I also got some really great, positive responses beyond what I even hoped. People who saw past the pettiness and the ego and really seemed to understand, relate to, appreciate, and admire what I’d made. As an artist (especially a snarky little shit-eater of an artist) what more can I ask for?
“Baby Dick Virgin” has already been sold, but limited edition 11×14″ signed, hand-numbered prints are available for purchase.
In August, I was arrested and charged with a crime I didn’t commit. I’m struggling to articulate the effect that my arrest had on me. It stole my momentum, erased my confidence, and cancelled all my plans.
I had an exhibit booked in Seattle for the month of November. That was cancelled the same day that the news of my charge hit the internet.
Being out on bail in September meant that I couldn’t risk selling prints out on the street (since it’s technically illegal without a vendor’s license). And given the nature of the charge against me, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for me to be out like that in public anyway – underneath a banner with my name on it.
Now that the case is over, it’s too cold here in Chicago to sell outdoors. When I tried last year, I found that once it gets this cold, people just walk right past me without stopping.
I’ve got no money.
It hurts to admit that. Especially now that I’ve just turned thirty. I suddenly feel like a total loser.
If I had turned thirty six months ago, it would have been fine. I had money then, I felt accomplished then, I had things going on back then, and had more plans for the future.
I don’t feel like I’ve got much of anything today. Consequently, I suddenly feel a whole lot older and like a whole lot more embarrassed. I feel like a failure.
I need to relocate to a warmer city where I can make money but I signed a lease in Chicago so that I’d have somewhere to live for what I thought would be a long drawn out legal process. And then the case was unexpectedly dismissed less than two weeks later.
I’ll leave anyway when I feel the time is right but I don’t know where to go. Like I said, my momentum is gone and my confidence is shattered.
In the past, I could just pick up and leave because I was living out of my van. But now I have Wallis with me and we need an apartment. She needs to be able to work and have her own life. That’s not possible when we’re living out of a van and constantly on the move. We need to settle in somewhere.
That job offer from Elite Daily came in at just the right time. It was right at the moment when I was starting to figure out what my next move ought to be. I was still all fucked up by the events of the last couple months but it seemed perfect; like it was maybe exactly what I needed. And it seemed to be going really well – right until it wasn’t. And then it was a huge disappointment when it didn’t work out.
I looked into the possibility of writing for another company but ultimately decided to start my own. Time will tell whether or not that’s going to develop into anything or just be a short detour in the path of my life.
My older sister just called in the midst of writing this post. After talking to her, I’ve decided that I need to figure this out and get it over with already. I need to stop waiting for things to work out and I need to just make something happen.
To that end, I’m packing up and leaving Chicago. There’s nothing here for me. It will be obnoxious having to travel back to Illinois on December 4th for the next hearing in my stupidly drawn out Adderall case from 2014 but I don’t want to sit here rotting in the meantime just so that I don’t have to incur extra travel expenses.
It looks like I’m going back to Florida. Sarasota-Bradenton to be precise. I’ll be able to work on Vapid Planet from there, Wallis and I will have a place to stay, and I’ll be able to make trips to other nearby cities to sell art every so often.
My girlfriend baked me two kinds of cupcakes for my birthday because she loves me very much. I love her too.
“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; givinginterviews 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 albumcovers 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.
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…
