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Here I set aside questions concerning the quality and aesthetic value of my art, a debatable
point, and try to answer the more fundamental question of why. Why do I devote so much
and time and energy to my art?
point, and try to answer the more fundamental question of why. Why do I devote so much
and time and energy to my art?
To date, my artwork has yet to change my life for the better. 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 is 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.
I believe that impulse was planted within me at birth; a quirk of genetics and fate. For half my
life it 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, hyper-sensitive, socially awkward and shy
exterior. I hope they see a man who “feels deeply and tenderly”.
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 is 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.
I believe that impulse was planted within me at birth; a quirk of genetics and fate. For half my
life it 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, hyper-sensitive, socially awkward and shy
exterior. I hope they see a man who “feels deeply and tenderly”.
