No, really. I’m pissed at myself for thinking I was any good and for wasting what little talent I was born with. I DO think that anyone can make art. Decent art. Art that someone would hang up. But it takes practice. And I refuse to do it. And I hate myself for that.
Also, I’ve realized how BAD I actually am compared to the people I admire, and I wonder if I will ever be able to get any further, with two kids and a tiny life that takes up all of my time. And it makes me slightly embarrassed that I have ever shown anyone any of the work I’ve done.
Which of course is silly. No one is looking here, not really. And the only reason I write and post is to show IMPROVEMENT, not awesomeness.
But I read Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art, by Scott McCloud. And it is awesome. And I’m not really interested in drawing comics, but his discussion of how hard it is to really create art with meaning how many years of study and work and introspection made me feel so small. And so old. And so … worthless. I will never have the time to devote to drawing for hours every day. And I will never have years ahead of me to return to school. My goal has really just been to sell stock art. To sell a few t-shirts. To have my friends hang up some of my art on their walls.
But deep down, in that small place where we whisper our dreams to the tiny stuffed beagle, that adorable orange beagle with his nose so large it would prevent him from walking, that forever friend we share things we could never even tell ourselves, in that deep place I knew my real goal was to make art with some understanding that might touch someone. Not everyone. Not for money, but just one person. The way art has been able to touch me. In my veins. Turning them to molasses. To glass. Switching off time for a moment while I looked into the heart of myself through a painting.