I have a lot of artwork from ten plus years ago (when I first started making art) that I still love conceptually but just looks terrible. I never liked the idea of recycling ideas but so much of that early stuff is still so exciting and meaningful to me and I hate the idea of just letting it disappear. At the same time, I certainly don’t wanna promote or advertise anything that looks bad or doesn’t represent me well. That line of thinking’s led me to reconsider my previous stance and become okay – even passionate – about the idea of taking some of my old concepts and making new artwork with them. One of those is already in the works as a major painting (and you can get a look at that process over on my TikTok) while others will be coming soon.
Speaking of TikTok, if you’re not already following me on there, I’ve been making four to seven videos for it every week – and have even started livestreaming on occasion. I know a lot of people have issues with TikTok (I certainly did/do) but if you wanna keep up with my process, I think it’s worth checking out.
Anyway, the drawing in today’s blog isn’t reallya recycled idea because it’s more of an exact duplicate. There’s nothing wrong with the original “My Favorite Cartoon” but I want to make prints of it and don’t have a good photo or scan of the original from which to make them. All I’ve got is badly filtered, altered versions from Photoshop. Since I don’t wanna make prints from those, I simply redrew it.
“Mental Health Services Available to Strippers, Junkies, Cutters, and Other SICK GIRLS.” 12/6/17. Acrylic paint. 3×4′.
GOD DAMN. Where do I start? As 2015 and
my third year as an artist drew to a close, I relapsed. By February
2016, I was back to shooting up all day everyday and had completely
stopped painting. My three years of art and clean time were over and
I was back to where I started before I went to rehab for two years,
discovered art, and gave up heroin. It wouldn’t be until September of
2017 that I got clean again and another couple months before I got
back to painting. This was the first painting I made at that time.
Unfortunately, after seven months off heroin, I relapsed again
in April 2018 (and stayed fucked up through October) so I’m just now
(April 2019) getting
back on top of my game and doing the things I should have been doing
all along, like updating my website and writing the statements for
the batch of paintings I made in those 7 months of clean time that
ended a year ago.
I did a fair amount of journaling on this canvas so I’m going to let it mostly speak for itself and just interject as I wanna supplement or comment on what I remember was going on in my head. For a little context though, I was living with the same family that “adopted” me when I was a teenager and that have been in my life ever since, I had broken up with Wallis, and I was trying to regain my footing but feeling pretty broken and lonely a fair amount of the time. Things were better than they’d been in a long time but, overall, I was just generally shaky. Regarding the title/main caption though (“Mental health services available to strippers, junkies, cutters, and other SICK GIRLS”), it was like a calling card. A casting call. I was putting it out to the world that I was looking for a girlfriend and making a joke about the kinds of girls that I attract and a joke about what I have to offer those girls. Anyway, here’s what else is written on the canvas (in chronological order, to the best of my recollection).
Yo – I am super fucking codependent. It’s been maybe two weeks that I’ve been “single” and I’m already fiending like a lonely little sad sack. Painting helps but it’s weird on a back porch instead of on the street with an audience and a stream of validation AND GIRLS.
I’m happy to report that, today (as I write this blog a year and a half later), after getting back together with Wallis, relapsing again, and breaking up again, I got over that overwhelming need to be with someone. I do have a girlfriend again at this point [Juliana] but – before I met her – I wasn’t sadding around and obsessing about finding someone. I was back to painting, spending time with friends, and – for the most part – I was pretty happy, even without a girlfriend for once.
I keep thinking if I could just find the right record to listen to or the right colors to energize me or the right title to plaster across this thing, I might get excited to paint and not just want to go lay down. I’m smoking way too many cigarettes, sitting out here, NOT painting.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
People say shit like, “You don’t know how good you had it ’til you lost it.” I don’t know if I knew back then. I honestly might have. (Certainly at times; in moments, I knew how lucky I was). One thing I know absolutely: I DON’T HAVE IT THAT GOOD ANYMORE. But I still got something. I still got SOME THINGS (people, a bed, whatever) to be grateful for. I’m thinking maybe this is one of those times to realize how good I got it before I don’t anymore…
HOW ‘BOUT THAT? A couple months after penning that shit, I got my girlfriend back. A couple months after that, I got a motorcycle. And then my own home/apartment. And then I fucking lost it all again and was worse off than when I was painting this.
Here’s the longest “journal entry” on this painting:
I’m not sure what’s motivating my behavior. I mean, I know I’m codependent. I miss her [Wallis]. But I’m not doing everything I could to get her back to me. Is that what I should be doing? I’ve been chasing other girls… “Chasing” is a strong word. I’m barely even casting my line out. But is it even fair to do that? Am I even looking for anyone as more than a temporary substitute until I can have [Wallis] again? (I don’t like that I’m writing this, knowing it’ll soon be public record; no girl wants to be a placeholder; I’m not doing myself any favors putting this out there). Whatever. I’m lonely but I miss her. I’m lonely because I miss her. I miss her because I’m lonely. At least one of those is true. (Or more true than the others). I don’t know which one. I absolutely love her. But do I need her back because I love her or just because I’m codependent? I’m having plenty of fun without her but maybe that’s just because it’s easier to have fun when you’re broke and only one person – not responsible for a second person. Or maybe just because I’m going out more. Even if I had money right now, I probably wouldn’t go out as much if she were here. But part of that is because I’d be more content just being at home with her. Content. With her. That sounds like not a bad thing either. But if we’re apart for long enough for her to get over me, which I’m piss-scared of, I need to be (ready to be) over her. That’s probably not gonna happen unless I meet someone else. A right someone else. That doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world but, in my current state, doesn’t seem super likely. Then again, the sale of a painting or two could drastically change my “current state.” …GIRLS AND MONEY. [That’s what it always comes down to.] I’m no more substantial than mainstream hip hop. AWESOME.
And last but perhaps most significantly, a regurgitation of something
I was taught in rehab.
WE ARE ATTRACTED (AND ATTRACTIVE) TO THOSE WITH EQUIVALENT LEVELS OF MENTAL HEALTH. (All my girlfriends have scars).
That final parenthetical is a reference to the fact that a few of the girls that I’ve dated (casually or seriously) have been cutters. I definitely don’t ever look for or target girls that have self-harm scars, but it’s something I’ve found out about or noticed shortly after getting involved (to whatever degree) with more than a couple of my “partners” (or whatever you wanna call ’em).
On a related note, I’ve been struggling a little bit lately with something. In the past, I’ve publicized my partners’ personal issues in the same way that I do my own. I wouldn’t say I feel like it’s been exploitative but – even with consent – I just feel a little more uneasy about it than I used to. With that being said…
My new girlfriend, Juliana, has a history with self-harm. As time passes, I’m hoping it proves to be just that: history. But, in any case, it’s no coincidence that she (LIKE ME) “suffers” from some mental health issues. Honestly, if she didn’t – if she were completely well-adjusted – I have a hard time believing that she’d have any interest in me. She’s just too wonderful. Really, her only issue is insecurity. Especially when it comes to my past with other girls. THIS ARTIST’S STATEMENT IS CERTAINLY EXACERBATING THAT. For real, she cannot handle anything involving my past with other girls. It’s the only thing we “argue” about at all. (PLEASE DON’T BE UPSET WHEN YOU READ THIS, JULIANA; I LOVE YOU A LOT, YOU LITTLE TWERP; I’m just wrapping up loose ends/finishing old projects so I can put this shit 100% behind me). Anyway, I don’t know exactly why it’s such a sensitive area for her but I know that her previous relationships (to put it mildly) have been abusive. She has not had the loving partners she deserves. I’m very proud though of the fact that she is already repeatedly telling me that no one has ever treated her as well as I do and that I make her very happy. It’s my hope that – just in loving her and treating her well – I’ll be able to help her feel as secure, safe, and loved as she deserves. Which isn’t to say that she’s a “project” or that I’m trying to “fix” her. But I can’t deny that the title of this painting, which I made over a year ago, still has some application to my life presently.
So we’re both sick but I think we’re good for each other. WE’LL SEE HOW IT GOES…
At the time of this writing, this original painting is still available for purchase, as are 12×16-inch signed, sealed, hand-numbered archival prints. Get in touch if you’d like to ask about the original 3×4-foot painting. Hit the webstore to buy a print.
“Raygun Youth.” 8/3/13. Acrylic paint and ink on wood panel. 24×6″.
I painted this for the cover of Billy Raygun’s posthumous discographic cassette. Each of the three bits of text is a lyric from a song of theirs that means something to me.
I thought I heard you calling; it was just the emptiness ringing in my head. I still think about you a lot. I still think about you a lot. I still think about you a lot.
In April 2011, my six-year relationship with Taylor came to a close. She broke up with me. I didn’t take it well. I had been pretty strung out on heroin, in a pretty bad way, for a little while but had just gotten into my first “treatment program” a few days prior (it was just methadone maintenance – not exactly the best path to wellness but what did I know?) On top of that, final exams for my final semester at Georgetown Law were about to begin and I hadn’t been to any of my classes all year. I didn’t even own the textbooks. I had a lot of studying to do if I was gonna graduate on time and I knew god damn well that if I didn’t graduate now that it was never gonna happen. I needed to keep it together (get it together) real, real fast if I was gonna keep everything in my life from crumbling into absolute shit, misery, and failure. Between the methadone, the heroin, the Adderall, and the sleep deprivation that goes along with studying in 24-hour shifts, I was … not entirely well. For a while there, I started to experience regular auditory hallucinations. Mostly, it was people (strangers) screaming at each other. It was like channel surfing on a TV where every single show featured nothing but loud, angry people. Occasionally though, I’d get a break in that and hear something softer and sweeter: “Sam…” It was a voice I knew; it was Taylor’s voice. Every single time, I’d turn around without fail, hoping (and actually believing) that this time she’d actually be standing there. She never was (of course) but it still broke my heart a little bit every time. It was a miserable cycle of studying, drugs, and crying.
All of this care / not caring is killing me.
This lyric isn’t tied into any one specific memory as much as it serves as an all-encompassing description of my relationships (romantic and otherwise) throughout my life. Oscillating frantically back and forth between giving a shit and shutting down. Between feeling loved and feeling abandoned and rejected. Sometimes it seems like my emotions are wired to a light switch. It doesn’t take a lot to flip from “perfect” love to total apathy (or even hatred). And since “we’re attracted to those at our same level of sickness/health,” I’ve gotten mixed up with plenty of girls who are equally skilled at unintentional (often drug-fueled) emotional back-and-forth. There was one night in early 2012 when my then-girlfriend professed her deep, unending, profound love for me in one moment, and was swearing that I was a disgusting, ugly, unlovable piece of shit in the next. And before the hour was up, she was right back to telling me how wonderful I was. Experiences like that can fuck with a person…
I’ll just admit that it’s a different girl, the same old story.
When I half-heartedly tried to kill myself in December 2012, I didn’t write a suicide note, but I did scribble something down on the back of one of many scraps of paper that were laying around my room. All that it said: “different girl / same old story.”
—–
Ideally, I’d have held on to sharing this until this release was announced but – shit – it’s been more than six months since I painted it so… sorry, kids!
Here’s a stream of their self-titled full-length. The first song is the first song I quoted lyrics from.
I’m in the middle of a silent temper tantrum, by which I mean I’m not talking and have dedicated myself to staying miserable until I exhaust myself. I used to do this almost every day, but they’ve been pretty few and far between since the day that I consider my “emotional sobriety date.” So – of course – I’m angry and now I’m even angrier with myself for this than I am about the stupid incident that sparked this episode.
Here’s the other of my two 9×12″ learning to draw with charcoal sketches from January.
“Pulp.” 1/17/13. Charcoal. 9×12″.
In February 2012, I was kicked out of my second rehab in as many months. I found myself running around Delray Beach with the girl I had been kicked out with. I’m not going to try and diagnose her state back then but – if I did something that bothered her – she could flip a switch and go from being totally in love with me to telling me what an ugly, worthless, pathetic, despicable piece of shit I was. On one occasion in our first week out on our own, we were staying in some little shitbox motel. (If you’re familiar with Delray, I’m sure you know it). I don’t remember exactly what went wrong, but it had something to do with heroin or getting more heroin. And – in case I didn’t already hate myself enough (I did) – she was really piling on as much hatred and vitriol as she could manage, to ensure that there wasn’t so much as a shred of self-esteem left in me.
I went into the bathroom. I was crying. I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t fucking stand the sight. It made me angry that I was the person looking back at me. So I started punching myself in the face. I don’t remember how many times. Enough that, for a good while after, I looked like someone had kicked the shit out of me pretty well.
Which I’ve always been good at. I’ve always been good at beating myself up. But that was the one time when it was most literal.
I’ve had thoughts like these today. I have had these impulses today.
