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I’m not sure, but I like to think that other artists struggle with this question as
much as I have. “Why do I devote much and time and energy to my art?”
Being an artist has not made my life any better, any easier. Looking over the body
of my work I have no great sense of accomplishment, no sense of pride, no peace
of mind. Rather, I’m haunted by doubt, convinced that all my efforts have been
and will continue to be in vain. I fear I’m on a path destined to end in (even
greater) heart-break, loneliness, poverty and misery.
Why would anyone choose to go down such an uninviting path? For me, the
answer is, because it’s an irresistible impulse. Something planted in me at birth;
a quirk of genetics or fate. For half my life that impulse was buried under and
silenced by familial and societal expectations.
But, it couldn’t be silenced forever. Events conspired to bring it to the surface,
nourish it and manifest into concrete sustained creative action. I wish I could
describe those events giving rise to my artistic focus as some rewarding and
joyous journey of personal discovery, something akin to a spiritual awakening.
But, the reality is far different and far less pleasant. It was only after a number of
painful personal failures, and subsequent bouts with deep depression that I started
creating art on a regular basis. It’s as if life stripped away those hopes and
dreams we all have; family, love, enduring friendships, or the certainty of faith
and left me nothing more than a singular obsession with making art.
Vincent Van Gogh once wrote, “I want to touch people with my art. I want them
to say, he feels deeply, he feels tenderly.” While I would be first to concede that
my work does not and probably never will, rival Vincent’s, nonetheless I share
his wish.
I hope that someone looking over my works, or reading any of my writings, might
see something of the man who exists below his dark, brooding, socially awkward
and self-destructive exterior. I hope they see a man who; feels deeply and
tenderly.
much as I have. “Why do I devote much and time and energy to my art?”
Being an artist has not made my life any better, any easier. Looking over the body
of my work I have no great sense of accomplishment, no sense of pride, no peace
of mind. Rather, I’m haunted by doubt, convinced that all my efforts have been
and will continue to be in vain. I fear I’m on a path destined to end in (even
greater) heart-break, loneliness, poverty and misery.
Why would anyone choose to go down such an uninviting path? For me, the
answer is, because it’s an irresistible impulse. Something planted in me at birth;
a quirk of genetics or fate. For half my life that impulse was buried under and
silenced by familial and societal expectations.
But, it couldn’t be silenced forever. Events conspired to bring it to the surface,
nourish it and manifest into concrete sustained creative action. I wish I could
describe those events giving rise to my artistic focus as some rewarding and
joyous journey of personal discovery, something akin to a spiritual awakening.
But, the reality is far different and far less pleasant. It was only after a number of
painful personal failures, and subsequent bouts with deep depression that I started
creating art on a regular basis. It’s as if life stripped away those hopes and
dreams we all have; family, love, enduring friendships, or the certainty of faith
and left me nothing more than a singular obsession with making art.
Vincent Van Gogh once wrote, “I want to touch people with my art. I want them
to say, he feels deeply, he feels tenderly.” While I would be first to concede that
my work does not and probably never will, rival Vincent’s, nonetheless I share
his wish.
I hope that someone looking over my works, or reading any of my writings, might
see something of the man who exists below his dark, brooding, socially awkward
and self-destructive exterior. I hope they see a man who; feels deeply and
tenderly.
