Category: Musings

Motivation, Part IV

Depression

Crippling depression was actually where I had my first breakthrough on learning to work through my angst. I have been very depressed in my life, and for long periods of time. In fact, if you look at my progression meme on dA, you might notice there is no art at all for 2001. It was for longer than a year, and I did nothing but sit around being depressed. I lost all desire to create art. I thought maybe I was done as an artist, that whatever artistic talent I had in me had been sucked out and thrown away.

When I recovered from this particular inconsolable pit, it was not through some fortuitous return of ambition or inspiration. It was just that I decided my life had absolutely no worthwhile purpose other than being an artist, and it was either get back on the horse or wither up and die. So I forced myself to start drawing again, and wrote my comic and learned how to paint. And it worked: I felt better. These days, the more depressed or stressed out I am, the more I turn to my art to deal with it. In some weird Pavlovian way, it's become a near-guaranteed mood boost for me.

  1. Misery Wears Itself Out.

    Like when you leave a kid alone to "cry it out." Barring clinical depression or sustained grief, a few hours to a few days is all it takes to work depression chemicals out of your system, provided you don't feed them with more depression. So, you know, ignore it and it will go away.

  2. Refuse To Indulge.

    ... with food, or shopping, or time off: you will regret it later. And indulging your misery leads to less time making art leads to a poor portfolio leads to more depression, whereas doing more art leads to a tangible end product which may actually make you happy. It may completely fail in a giant pile of brown acrylic ick, true, but it's still a better bet.

  3. Take Better Care Of Your Body.

    Eat right, exercise, and stick to your default sleep schedule. Your health and your mood are pretty closely intertwined. And although technically junk food is a better short-term mood boost than running for an hour, the latter is better in the long run. Plus, as an artist you are probably hugely out of shape with a lifetime of back aches in front of you. I recommend getting a yoga tape or something.

  4. Avoid The Internet.

    It is very easy to go online looking for support or distraction. The former is scarce and the latter abundant. In fact, the more time you spend online, the more you will realize that no one there gives a shit about you or even knows you exist.

  5. Music Is A Great Motivator.

    Someone mentioned this on ReMINDBlog and I realized that I do often use music to, uh, set the mood. I have playlists that I associate with certain art projects and just hearing that music makes me feel energized to work on something. You'll have to set up these playlists when you aren't depressed, mind you (you don't want the I-just-broke-up-with-my-boyfriend set of mopey songs, after all), but repeat the association with enough positive art-making moments and this can be the magic bullet for getting you off your ass and working again.

  6. Only One Stage Of Art Takes Mood Into Consideration: Design.

    If you have multiple projects at once (and most people do), then at least one should be at a labor-only stage where you can work on it regardless of emotional state. Some of your art may actually require you to be depressed (abstract painting! poetry!). If not, read a book, watch an artsy film, or otherwise try to do things that offer some passive self-improvement.

  7. Stop Being A Baby.

    Oglaf made this awesome comic last week, which is precisely how I see my own artistic muse: The Blank Page. Tell yourself to man up and stop being such a goddamn whiner. It's time for a military-style pep-talk: "Do you want that bitchy high school art teacher to be right about you, Ms. Everything-Is-Sooo-Hard?!?!" :)

A Final Note

We always have some excuse for why we don't do more art. It could be anything I've said, or something I've missed, or that one thing only you agonize over. But in the end, listening to any of your excuses means less work and less work means less self-esteem and less skill. And less self-esteem and less skill lead to more fear and more dissatisfaction and less validation and more depression, and consequently less work. I've offered up a long list of coping mechanisms, compromises, pep-talks, and nagging lectures, but when you get right down to it, what we all really need to do is stop listening to the excuses at all. Like acquiring mental earplugs, fitted to our own minds, to drown out the noise of our own angst.

NOW GET BACK TO WORK!

Have you read the prior articles on Fear, Dissatisfaction, and Validation?

Posted 2011.03.23 12:10 | Last modified 2011.06.07 12:19 | 7 Comments

Motivation, Part III

Validation

I consider validation the reverse of the previous subject, dissatisfaction: whereas dissatisfaction is an internal desire for better work, validation is instead the external desire for better feedback. It varies dramatically between artists, and the problems here range from destructive criticism, to praise from people you dislike, to the simple sound of crickets on your website. I think we all want to please people with our art, but who we want to please and how much we are willing to go through to get that effect is a tricky thing to consider.

It is also the aspect of art that we have the least control over.

As an older artist who was long since buried by anonymity, I personally find I derive most of my own satisfaction from creating art rather than sharing it. But I recognize that I am still motivated by respect from the artists I admire, and by the heartfelt messages from fans who were touched by something I have made. Accordingly, my suggestions for increasing your fan base are cautious and aimed more at quality than at quantity. If you are really desperate for some attention and don't care what kind, I imagine there are better guides out there to whoring yourself out on the internet. :P I hear getting into flame wars is a great way to climb the google ranking! No really, please don't do that. :(

  1. Make New Connections

    At the beginning, validation is simply about getting more people to see your work and respond to it.

    1. Meet In Person.

      Go to conventions. Join a weekly art group for coffee. Nothing beats a face-to-face connection. It is a lot more powerful than an email or deviantArt comment. Also, the more you connect with people who love your work, the more you will respect them and value their feedback.

    2. Advertize.

      Coming up with an ad to sell your work is a pain in the butt, but it will help you focus on who you are, what you want, and what you have to offer. DeviantArt, FaceBook, Top Web Comics, and lots of other places have inexpensive options for targetted advertising.

    3. Don't Be A Dick.

      You don't have to muzzle yourself. Just try not to take out your personal stuff on random visitors to your site. They won't come back when you are finally in a better mood.

    4. Promote Other People.

      It can't hurt to put a little good karma out there and help out some artists who are equally talented and equally obscure. And they might return the favor when they get more famous, you never know.

  2. You Are Expecting Too Much Too Soon.

    If you are frustrated that you aren't getting the mountains of praise you expected by now, well maybe your timeline for success is a little off.

    1. Get Rich Quick = Never Gonna Happen.

      Did you really think you were going to be rich and famous right off the bat? Quick fame has everything to do with dumb luck and nothing whatsoever to do with talent. Since you can't magically win the lottery, just work on getting better.

    2. Stop Comparing Yourself To People With Less Skill And More Success.

      See the above point: lots of hugely successful artists are complete hacks (cv. Thomas Kinkaid), and lots of excellent artists live in relative obscurity. The world does not hand out popularity and wealth with fairness in mind.

    3. Successful Artists May Not Be As Successful As You Think.

      People don't talk about money often in the art world. Most artists I know are broke, and in almost all the arts in general, people work a second job (or first job, depending on how you look at it). I know Johnny Bunko says you can make a modest living at this, but for most people that just isn't true. :(

    4. What Are You Missing?

      If a lot of artists with your approximate skills seem to be moving ahead faster than you are, start researching what they have that you don't. Maybe it's popular subject matter. Maybe it's frequency of updates. Maybe it's social skills or marketing savvy (I certainly lack either). It takes a lot more to be successful than just being handy with a pencil. Some things you can acquire if you work at it, and some things you are just going to have to accept as a handicap.

  3. Stop Counting.

    I've had people disappear for months and then come back and rave over what they missed. I've had online friends disappear forever, with no reason. I've outgrown some artists I used to love. :/ Don't take the fluctuations personally.

  4. Take A Feedback Hiatus.

    We all need to get away occasionally from our public failures/stagnation/irritating comments. Some people exploit this act as dramatic pity-party time to coerce others into begging them not to leave, which seems pretty pathetic to me. Some artists disappear with no comment whatsoever and are gravely missed. You do what you need to in order to get your mind back in the game, but if you don't want to pay for it later, maybe keep up a minimal online presence (or ask a friend to).

  5. Remember That Fans Do Not Equal Money.

    The people who comment or fav your work are just readers, not consumers. Despite the "freemium" internet craze, there is not even a correlation between the two. If you give your art away online for free, you can expect that most of your validation audience will never consider giving you money for the pieces you decide to sell.

  6. Negative Feedback Sucks The Wind From Your Sails.

    As I'm sure you've gathered from a few of remarks already, sometimes an artist gets too much feedback, and it's the mean kind of feedback. Myself, I sometimes think I'd rather have the aforementioned crickets all day than be handed some of the awful shit people have said to me over the past few decades.

  7. Get A Job/Get A Life.

    I want to stress when I include this point that I am not advocating taking time off from art. I will never suggest that. These are just suggestions for ways to diversify your validation sources and fill time until you find you can live without feedback, or you start getting the feedback you want.

    1. Validation AND Rent.

      A job is a great way to get validation, not necessarily because anyone will praise what you do there, but the warm feeling a regular paycheck lends your self-esteem has a powerful effect. And if you are really committed to your art, I think you will find that working 20-40 hours a week does not crimp your style as much as you think it will. You really only have so many art hours in you during any given week, only now those hours will be compressed into your evenings and weekends.

    2. Improve Yourself.

      Neil Gaiman said that an author who isn't happy with their writing should go do something with their life - travel, take classes, grow. Get out there. Take figure drawing. Learn karate. Study subatomic physics. Expanding your world view gives your art a special niche that can only make it more popular.

    3. Keep A Well-Rounded Validation Portfolio.

      Like in investing! Cultivate many different sources of validation: friends, family, hobbies, interests, charitable causes. When you wrap up your talents as an artist into lots of different outlets, you will find that one can fall through while the others are still paying back to cover it.

Next week? Depression. When you really can't draw because you are huddled under your bed in the fetal position.

Also, read the previous articles on Fear and Dissatisfaction.
Posted 2011.03.16 10:42 | Last modified 2011.10.13 14:37 | 5 Comments

Motivation, Part II

Dissatisfaction

This is the biggest section because I think this is the motivational black hole we artists spend the most time stuck in. I don't know if there really are artists out there who think they are perfect, but if you know one, I can guarantee that person is delusional and will likely be stuck exactly where they are forever. Because dissatisfaction is not a bad thing. It leads you to question your bad habits, to shake off long-held limitations, and to expand your reach. The only downside is that it can also lead you to give up. Instead of avoiding work because of insecurity, sometimes you need to face that mean little voice in your head telling you that you aren't good enough, and ask it why, and what you have to do to get better. Of course, other times you need to tell it to go to hell because it is asking too much from you. But either way, you gotta stop listening to it.

These are my pep-talk pointers for both accepting your work as it is, and for getting off your ass to make it better.

  1. Accept The Process.

    There's a lot of misery that you can't escape in the world of art. Put it into perspective.

    1. The Moving Target.

      This is not a field where you sit back one day and say, "I'm perfect and never need paint again." The better you get, the better you wish you were. But if you look back and see how far you've come, try projecting that forward. That's where you'll be if you put in some effort.

    2. Even Your Successes Are Failures.

      Because of the previous point, even your best work will seem pretty pathetic in a few years. Don't over-analyze your portfolio, wondering why it's full of crap. That's just a recipe for misery. And you certainly won't build a better portfolio by sitting around moping.

    3. Failure Is a Requirement.

      Everyone fails. The more you experience it, the better an artist you will be, because you will develop a reservoir of coping mechanisms, recovery techniques, and repeatable patterns for success. The first time I decorated a wedding cake, it was amazing. The second time? It was a complete disaster, and I had no idea what I did wrong. I also had no idea what I'd done right. But I didn't figure that out until I failed. After that, I started taking notes and practicing technique and actually developed some skills that didn't depend on serendipity.

  2. Perfectionism Leads to... Nothing.

    Jason Brubaker mentions Parkinsons Law in one of his articles on time management. The more time you allow for a project: the more time you take to complete it. Unfortunately, obsessing over an individual piece does not definitively lead to a better piece: it only leads to not getting as much work done. You can spend a week making seven great pieces of art, or you can make a single piece that may be near-perfect (or may be completely overworked and ruined). Don't be a perfectionist unless you have a lot of extra time lying around that you want to waste.

  3. You Have Higher Standards

    Often craftsman are dissatisfied with their work because they have a greater understanding of their craft than anyone else, and know all the nitpicking details that no one else sees. You probably spend a fair chunk of time every week looking at other people's art. You've studied the old masters and art theory. You know a lot, and that means you see your own mistakes a lot faster than everyone else. You could use this to spend months refining every single piece to your absolute satisfaction, but I would like to point out the flipside of this point: no one else has your same standards. You can spend forever making your work fill all those tiny criteria in your head, but chances are no one else will notice the difference. So, reign yourself in a little.

  4. Stop Comparing Yourself To Others.

    This is also covered in validation, and certain elements apply to fear as well. We artists love destroying ourselves by looking at what we don't have, and online sites like deviantArt, for all its wonderful social support, is a terrible enabler for this behavior.

    1. You Are Biased.

      You see all of your own flaws and all the virtues of other artists. Or at least, I do. You can show me anyone's art, however crappy, and I can almost guarantee that I could point out something that I wish I could do and can't. Maybe consider all the things you can do instead.

    2. You Can't Have Someone Else's Style.

      You have your own! I love Cari Corene's sweeping, abstract backgrounds and elongated characters. I love Tessa Stone's stick-legged men and retro color schemes. But hating my own work because it possesses none of those qualities is futile. It's like comparing noses, or boyfriends. Once I accepted that and just moved on with what I had, I accomplished a lot more than I did in the years I spent wishing I could co-opt someone else's work.

    3. Style Is Intuitive.

      Style is not something that you magically develop or discover one day. It is a summary of all the art that has influenced you over the course of your life. It is all your skills and tricks and internal sense of beauty, mixed with all your limitations. The amazing art that we so admire in other artists? It's just the normal way they draw. When you see complex story layouts, dynamic action shots, delicate coloring; remember that this is how that artist sees the story in their head, not something they read from a checklist on How To Make Great Art. Sure, you want to become better, and that means absorbing and learning from all the art which awes you. But you also need to nurture your own voice, and that means drawing in the way that makes sense to you, even if it's completely different from everything you've seen or been taught is correct.

    4. Compete Only With Yourself.

      You may be able to tweak and refine your work over time, but right here and now, you are only the artist you are. Accept it. Do the best work you can and stop hating it just because it's not as good as someone else's.

  5. Bored? Work It Out.

    Many artists just get bored, especially in the comics world. You do the same thing week after week and your work is competent but no longer thrilling. You are in a rut.

    1. Remind Yourself Of Long-Term Goals.

      Remember how your parents never let you eat dessert until you ate your vegetables? Yeah. This is that. Look at your long-term goals - if you are writing a comic, there is probably a big scene coming up that you really want to draw, or maybe you have an art show or convention to go to. Remind yourself that you can't do those things until you finish all the boring projects you have in front of you.

    2. Break Out Of the Rut.

      The OK Plateau is when you have achieved a level of competence such that you can finish your projects in reasonable time with reasonable quality. You are stuck here because you aren't doing anything that demands you improve. You have to artificially push yourself to get past competent to exceptional.
      1. Structured Assignments.
        There are some great project memes out there for artists like the 365 days of "X", or ATC sketches of all the characters from your favorite show. Pick one and stick to it. The breakthroughs come at the end of these assignments, not at the beginning, so don't stop if you don't see results right away.
      2. Spend More/Less Time.
        Give yourself a time limit for your project. A shorter time limit will encourage you to produce better work faster. If you are rushing through your work already, try a longer time limit and experiment/add some extra flourishes.
      3. Use More/Less Source Material.
        If you are relying too much on source material, your creative side may be feeling underutilized. If not enough source material, then the end product may be badly drawn and inaccurate. Consider if a different approach might improve your art or how you feel about it.
      4. Try New Mediums/Programs.
        There is always something out there you haven't tried. If you spend too much time here, you will violate the Perfectionism point above, but you have to waste some time to discover cool new tricks. Online tutorials are also really interesting (albeit time-wasting).
      5. Abandon Consistency.
        You may think you need to continue working in an existing style. You don't. Unless someone is paying you to produce something in a specific style, you can do whatever you want. Even if you are writing a comic or painting a series. Screw consistency. Shake things up.

  6. Johnny Bunko: Persistence Beats Talent Over Time

    A lot of the artists you know now will give up and disappear. As an artist nearing her 40s, I can assure you this is true. People drift off into other careers that provide more money and validation. They settle down and have families and don't have the time for it anymore. They get bored and stop working as much. Don't be one of them and your skills will continue to improve and the competition will continue to decrease, which eventually leaves you much closer to the top. This is why motivation is so crucial - you have to keep working to get better or you will just end up as one of the people who disappeared.

And in related entertainment: OGLAF: Crippling Self Doubt

Next up? Validation. You aren't getting the quality feedback you want.

Also, read the previous article on Fear.
Posted 2011.03.08 8:58 | Last modified 2011.06.07 11:45 | 15 Comments

Motivation, Part I

When I first joined deviantArt five years ago, I weighed in on a forum regarding the ubiquitous lament of artists: motivation. It's a common refrain I hear, particularly from young artists, that they used to draw all the time and now they go weeks or months without inspiration. They are looking for some thrill, some newness that art used to give them when they were kids, but that kind of excitement can't last in the face of years and decades of doing art. Eventually, it becomes a job. And as with every other job, some people hate that, and some people care enough for the end product that they sail past the day-to-day disappointments.

I can't tell you at this stage in my life where I fall, as I am neither established and comfortable nor young and passionate nor even middlingly motivated. But over two decades of struggling with this angst, I do have a few pointers. And I think I can sum them up for you, under four main categories: Fear, Dissatisfaction, Validation, and Mood. As I learn more, I will try to update these articles.

Fear

One of the biggest barriers in producing art is fear: fear of being a failure, fear of ridicule, fear that you can't repeat past success, fear that you can't give your ideas the attention they deserve. Some of this fear comes early in a career from lack of experience, some comes later from the first glimmers of success, some from at the end when you are settled and have everything to lose. But it's the same destructive inner monologue, and it is never good to hear.

Myself, I hear it everyday, every time I pick up a pencil. And here are some ways I work around it.

Note: most of these are from the perspective of a beginning artist; if I ever move on to professional, I'm sure I'll have some later stages to add.

  1. Practice.

    You can build your confidence, increase your skills, and fill time otherwise spent on angst by engaging in practice work that may not directly further your dreams.

    1. Trace an Artist You Love.

      Practice makes perfect. If you love an artist, they have something you want to learn to do. Copy them until you figure it out. You don't have to spend the rest of your life being a derivative Disney artist - you can master the style and then move on to something even better.

    2. Color a Comic Page Drawn by Someone Else.

      Ink a comic page sketched by someone else. Draw a page scripted by someone else. These are repetitive tasks that make you more comfortable in a particular medium and more familiar with the "language" that you need to learn.

    3. Read The Blog of an Artist You Admire.

      Look for tips, strategies, life lessons. Most artists have blogs these days - in fact, most of them are on deviantArt and you can follow them! They may post works in progress or tutorials or retrospectives - you can learn a lot and see that the end result you so admire is just a series of tricks they've learned from years of experience, which you can apply to your own work with similar success.

    4. Reach Out For Advice.

      Go to comic conventions, send out emails to artists you admire or artists who achieved things you wish you could do. Most people love to talk about themselves and what they've done, and making friends in the community can give you a great support group of encouragement and promotion. I would caution on asking for critiques: make sure a critique is what you want! If you are inspired by criticism and aren't discouraged, by all means ask for it-! But don't do it just because someone told you it's the thing to do. Stick to asking for advice if all you are looking for is conversation and support.

  2. Stop Making Fun of Other People.

    A friend sent me some poetry once and I was not very nice about it. Not only did I probably crush this person, I additionally made it that much harder for my own poetry to ever be good enough, for myself. Stop criticizing other people for doing bad work or taking stupid risks. Everywhere in your life: movies, television, fashion, dating, karaoke. Realize that everyone looks stupid on the way to achieving something amazing. When you start making allowances for the ridiculous failings of others, you will be less afraid of your own.

  3. Deliberately Humiliate Yourself.

    Take an awful picture you've done and post it online. Post some awful fanfic or poetry from your teenage years. Seriously, what's the worst thing that could happen? Face it and realize it's not that bad.

  4. Finally, Jump in.

    Get your feet wet doing what you want to do. You won't be perfect, but we learn by doing. Eventually you just have to give it a go.

    1. Start With Baby Steps.

      If you want to write a comic, try writing a 4-page sample short. If you want to paint, do a small version of a big painting, or a rough version of something complicated you have in mind.

    2. Lie to Yourself.

      Tell yourself you are just going to do something "for practice." If you completely fail, who cares? You don't have to show it to anyone. You will just try it out.

    3. Get Out There.

      Even if it's not perfect. Every week. It takes a long time to build up an audience. Decades. Get out there now - even if you aren't happy with your work yet - and start recruiting your future fans. We'll talk about this stage more, but frankly, you may never be happy with your work. But if you never share it, then you will forever be a hobbyist closet artist, and miserable. Just put aside your ego and post your successes and failings for the world to mock and/or praise.

    4. Ignore The Naysayer.

      Seriously - forever! A lot of this section has been about busywork - exercises to help you get past your fear. But the end result is that you need to accept that you feel this way, that you will ALWAYS feel this way, and you just need to work past it. Sometimes you are right to be afraid, and there are things you can do to improve. And sometimes it is just holding you back from doing something great. So stop listening to the fear and just work!

Next up? Dissatisfaction. Sometimes you just hate EVERYTHING you do.

Posted 2011.03.01 22:11 | Last modified 2011.03.08 8:59 | 11 Comments

Observed Alterations in the Perception of Magic Versus Science

[magic]
Arthur C. Clarke said, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." This thought was also expresed in Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court: a modern man who travels back in time to the middle ages and awes the primitive locals with his "magic" modern technology. I think it is not too much of a stretch to say that most of our current technology would indeed appear magical to the people of the 19th century - what with iPhones, the internet, MRI scans, and so forth.

But I don't think that will be true any longer. Take a moment and think what the future could bring: immersive VR multiplayer games, anti-aging drugs, space travel, even hand-held laser weaponry... none of it sounds like "magic." It just sounds like very advanced science. If someone walked up to me with an alien teleporter from 2200, I'd just start asking them how it worked. I wouldn't think: "Oh noes! Magic!"

This reflects a two-part change in modern society, I believe. Firstly, because of the rapid advances in technology and their saturation of our daily life, we have come to accept that scientific mystery is not magic. We are surrounded every day by complex and amazing devices whose inner functions we couldn't ever hope to understand. Most of our gadgets were designed and built by whole companies of people with individual specializations. We are the product of Ford's assembly line, each doing our own little part as best we can and trusting that everyone else is doing the same. Mysteries are easier to attribute to the intellectual genius of another person than to mystical forces. Even in the most artfully executed staged displays, we look for wires and sleight-of-hand, not telekinesis.

The second part is that the idea of magic has become so very popular in the Oughts. Which probably hasn't been true for nigh on a thousand years, once the Christians started burning people at the stake for suspicion of it and all (actually, the Romans had some similar laws on that matter too, come to think of it). As near as the 1970s Dungeons and Dragons was linked with Satan-worshipping child-murderers in most people's minds. But now pretty much everyone can read Harry Potter and say they're a Wiccan without being tossed willy-nilly into prison on false-memory child abuse charges. Magic is a nice dream - an adult fairy tale to make life seem a little less cruel.

And I think these two changes have necessitated a shift in what we perceive as magic. Before, magic was just the unexplained. But now the unexplained can be very boring (advanced technology). Magic has needed to move into new ground - the unexplainable. Not just advanced science, but the anti-science. It exists outside of the laws of physics. Whereas wizards of the past were the most educated of their day, utilizing the forces of the universe in grand and unbelievable ways, now most fantasy stories internalize it into their characters as a talent, an innate ability that is powered by emotion or spirit. Magic is like perfect pitch - a special gift that only a few people have at which the rest of us can only wonder from afar.

There's something a little sad about that change. It's the difference between believing a great artist is made by working hard for years and years and becoming a master of his craft, versus believing that a great artist is born that way and produces his greatest work in his 20s and then drifts on into obscurity or monotony. It makes it easier for us to dream that we could be special, but a lot harder for us to achieve it once we have recognized that we are not.
Posted 2008.08.21 17:25 | Last modified 2011.03.02 13:32 | 1 Comment

The World Is Getting Smaller… And So Am I

[map]
Map of The Internet (src)
I'm an old-timer on the Internet - not so ancient as the Bulletin Board posters of the early 90s, but old enough to remember when AOL was a walled garden and all the links fit on one page. The internet was so big then: full to the brim with tiny sites featuring fun games and comedic rants. For the lonely and isolated (like me), it was a way of reaching out and finding new families - best friends we would never have met, constrained as we were by physical location and social habits. When the late 90s rolled around and commercialism seized the internet, we complained that the fun places were being drowned out by the big brands. You couldn't find Barbie parodies anymore, or teasing twists of trademarked phrases like "Ham, the Other White Meat," because those companies were sending out lawsuits left and right. But then things turned around a bit with blogs and MySpace and the connections people started making in the Oughts. Web 2.0 was all about bringing people together, about making collaborations and virtual families. The internet became a world where we could socialize even better than the local coffee shop.

But I think something's gone very wrong. And - admittedly - this may just be me being old and missing the point, but it seems to me that instead of becoming a place where people who don't fit in can find a niche where they belong, the internet has ballooned into a giant clique where the nonconformists are more scorned and isolated than ever. Blogging is a popularity contest and - for all I love to read Dooce and the like - as a consequence, the less popular are dropping off the map, drowned out and never seen. Instead of connecting by setting up a little home on LiveJournal or Flickr, you just get told every day how incredibly worthless and undeserving of companionship you are, staring at that zero counter month after month.

And the senior clique? They are more confident than ever that they are all the world needs to hear. The way the internet en masse attacks movies like The Crystal Skull, while blithely ignoring the other monumental failures of the genre. The way everyone reads the same books (from Harry Potter to Y: The Last Man). The way everyone knows the same celebrity gossip and CuteOverload vocabulary. You are either in, or you are out (and yes, they all watch Project Runway and blog their reality TV picks with zest).

And I've always been an outsider.

I wander the internet now and it's entertaining enough in a sugary sort of way, like green Jell-o for my morning doldrums. But it's all so same-y and predictable. Occasionally I find a new site that makes me laugh, but it wears off after a few months. I read odd books and wish I had someone to talk to about them. Someone who doesn't like Star Trek or SG-1 or Harry Potter. I wish I had a smaller community of artists where I could feel like I wasn't at the losing end of insignificant.

And I guess that's the real problem there. There are over 6 billion people on the planet, and more of them get on the internet everyday. And - as in real life - there are more desperate-to-fit-in sheep joining up than lonely outsiders. Maybe it was different once, maybe it was smaller and more selective. But it's not. The world's not. And we can't be special anymore. Even the statistical uniqueness of our fingerprints is about to disappear up against that huge number of people. And I don't know how to accept that.

I'm looking at the piece of fairy cake and I just can't grasp how very small I am.
Posted 2008.07.30 12:08 | Last modified 2011.03.02 13:32 | 1 Comment

Regrets

[Caesar]
Christmas with Caesar


When I was eleven I got a cat named Caesar. He was a tiny kitten when he came into my life, but he quickly grew into a giant, fluffy gray tabby. He was an accidental addition to my life: I had been begging my mother for a cat for years, and when she finally said yes, I immediately came home with a little spotted female kitten from a friend's house. And my mom took in Caesar the same day from my older brother and his wife. It was an awkward moment. She wanted me to pick one, but they were kittens and I couldn't reject one. So they both stayed. And the female cat hated me almost immediately. But Caesar became the love of my life. At night, I would sneak him inside - even though it was forbidden - and let him sleep on my bed. I would clean up his kitten messes, and brush his tangled fur when he became a quarrelsome tom. I snuck him tuna and old clothes to sleep on out in the garage. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be patted on the head or scratched under the chin.

Eventually the female cat had a tiny litter of her own. And a few months after that, she and her kittens disappeared. My mother told me they ran away. My sisters told me they went to the pound. I believed my sisters. But secretly I didn't care. As long as I had my fluffy Caesar I was happy.

As he got older, Caesar got pretty dirty. He lost a good chunk of one ear. Then his eye got pretty infected. I cried a lot and petted him more. He drooled on me and purred his heart out. Then one day he, too, disappeared. He was only a year old. My mother told me he ran away. My sisters told me he went to the pound. I didn't believe any of them. I knew he had died somewhere, all alone, fighting out his little half-feral tom life.

I never asked for another cat. My parents were relieved. They decided it was just a phase. My mother had never really understood the whole pet idea in the first place. Animals were more of a functional contribution to the farm in her mind. She hugged me and told me I was allergic to cats anyway. I didn't believe her. I was heartbroken without my Caesar. My high school years were lonely and bereft of his furry company. I kept the few pictures I had. For a long time I secretly kept his name tag in a little jewelry box. I would take it out and remember how much I loved him and how dirty and sick he had been at the end. And I hated myself because I hadn't taken better care of him. He was my best friend and the thing I loved most in the world, and I had let him slowly be eaten away by the cruelties of animal life because I was too young and stupid to know how to protect him.

Twelve years later I finally gave in and got another little kitten. His name was Orpheus, and he was an accidental addition too. I went to the Humane Society with my Significant Other and we came home with a little black female. And she hated me immediately. But the next day I found little Orpheus, the size of my hand, abandoned, crippled from hunger, and near death. And I couldn't say no, so home he came. He was a little wobbly at first, and jumped around the house like a bunny as he struggled to make his legs work again. But soon he could jump and snuggle and climb under the blankets and purr against my chest. And he was the love of my life. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be picked up and held.

Orpheus grew up big and strong and I got him all his shots and the best food I could find, even though I couldn't afford it. I got him fixed when he was old enough and then I took him in for antibiotics after all the fights he got into anyway. I took him into the Kitty E.R. when his liver failed and paid $600 from my last credit card to keep him alive. I smuggled him his favorite blanket and fed him his favorite treats. And I thought, when he dies I don't think I'll ever ask for another cat. Because I'll be heartbroken.

But he got better. And he sleeps on my bed every night, even though I am allergic to cats after all. And I drool a little on him (because of the allergies) and he purrs his heart out. And even my little female cat comes around, snuggling up in the end and deciding she might like me too. And I look down at them and think, "I love you, Caesar."

Maybe I can never change the short, wretched life I gave my beloved friend, but I am making it up to him the only way I know how. By doing all the things for Orpheus that I should have done for him. And all the love that I give my little cats is the love that I owe my childhood cat. I miss him.
Posted 2008.01.31 22:30 | Last modified 2011.03.02 13:32 | Leave a reply

Unfinished

Were I more clever I would be the clown, were I more stupid I would be the fool, were I less light-hearted I would be the tragic victim, were I more sociable, I would be the lady faire. Alas, fighting against stereotypes while simultaneously trying to define myself with shallow paradigms, I don't think I am anything easily stated, except, perhaps, too much like everybody else.

My life is fairly ordinary, the average nine-to-five job that drives people to load up a pair of shotguns in the trunk, just to bring a little variety back into their world. But I don't, in fact, hate my job. And I know my own character well enough that I can't see myself creating Michaelangelo's David during a six-month artistic leave of absence. I'd just sit on my ass watching TV like everybody else does. So I haven't run out to buy that gun permit yet. And I don't think a 10-foot slab of marble would really fit in the trunk of my teeny little Toyota, provided it had the horsepower to lug such a thing home.

People still tell me that I am exceptional and talented and all those fancy other words you use when you meet someone whose minor daily achievements you envy simply because you're feeling suddenly guilty that you spent the last month on your ass watching TV. I hear it a lot less than I did when I was a straight-A high school student with red hair and glasses and an inferiority complex the size of Pocatello. It could be that I've shed the glasses, and my hair is now blue, but I suspect rather the general apathy that descends on your average artistically-minded teenager forced to abandon creative pursuits and instead excel in math, science, and literature in the vain pursuit of identity, approval, and an easily stated path in a decidedly complex world. Then again, perhaps the very fact that I could construct that sentence (and recite it theatrically to anyone who asks) is enough to alter previously genial public opinion from genius to simple psycho.

Like most people, I tend to blame my past for my present failures. It's not really fair: after all, it's not like anyone made me join the cheerleading squad or the drama club. In fact, I was basically raised *in absentia*, so if I took up the misguided notion that getting an A in chemistry would make my father notice I existed, well, that was my own stupidity. Hence the opening, and why I'm not the clown, although I do still dream occasionally of becoming a stand-up comedian. I have a routine: but since I never joined the drama club, I don't think I could overcome the stage-fright.

But let's not forget the conclusion of my key sentence. The easy path. I never fought enough for what I wanted. I still don't. I still sit on my ass watching TV week after week, dreaming of painting while groggily absorbing another rerun of ER. Like imagining the emptiness that lies beyond the edge of our universe and trying to conceive of how far it does or does not stretch, life can seem an intimidating void. Any marker in that void, any approved path or witnessed career, is a hard lure to ignore, especially when up against the uncertainty of personal vision, the ties that must be cut to follow one's dreams, and the bickering back-seat driver that is my own low self esteem.

Besides, a person can find a lot of company on that easy path. A wealth of salesmen and business executives cross my path, their careers made by two years of selling Mormon religion. Young mothers with prematurely large families conceived with the same in-depth planning that attends a customer big-sizing their fast food meal. People whose lives were made by indecision, and when it occurs to them finally to be dissatisfied where they end up, they drift on as lottery junkies and mystical dreamers, patiently waiting for some cosmic hand to capriciously pluck them from their dull, directionless lives and set them in their proper paradise. I sometimes feel like the prankster yelling "FIRE" in a crowded theatre, watching the crowds pour past me, running from that moment of deciding their life's future course. But it must have been someone else, because when graduation day came, I ran with all the rest of them.

And there must be a million different moments behind me when I had the chance to follow my heart, from selecting my college major to how I spent the 15 minutes this morning between showering and breakfast. There will likely be a million more. Myself, I'd like to think that somewhere down this road I will select one, finally. That I will look down into that void and back at the road, and maybe--just that once--think that uncertainty could be more satisfying than another hour of network television. It does help that the quality of the latter deteriorates year after year. Maybe I could graph that: the decline in interesting programming versus the effort it takes to do something which requires the use of my limbs. There might be a point in there where they equalize. It would be nice to know when, especially since that would help me plan my La-Z Boy payment plan.

I do have some genuinely brilliant friends: PhDs in music and history, top-notch lawyers, mathematicians, doctors, VPs. I think I must be that fat girl in our group, the one the cheerleaders always kept around in high school. But however closely I study them, my little troop of Bright Eyes have yet to reveal their secret key to breaking the couch potato cycle. And they aren't exactly the disciplined type, forgoing television or eating extra bran. The things they go without are fairly universal: love, cleanliness, a healthy diet, physical activity of any sort. The ways they piss away their days are not so different from my own: beer, pizza, computer games, hypochondrism. Yet at the end of the year, my friends show up with photography awards, new degrees, and job offers from all over the world. And I was rejected by McDonald's.

I wonder sometimes what opportunites they hate themselves for missing, what dreams fill their rosy-colored futures. Is there a level up there I can't see, stuck all the way down in my dead-end lower middle class world as I am? The material one of mansions and antique cars which lures the lottery junkies is one I think none of my crowd is really drawn to, but perhaps there is some other life intertwined, good food, fine wine, gallery shows, witty conversation, a chance meeting with Steve Martin or Geena Davis at the annual MENSA gathering (and finding your IQ is higher--oh, one can dream). Because somewhere in my bitter soul I think no one is ever quite ready to sit down and say, "Yup, my life is perfect, just the way it is."

It's supposed to drive us to achieve, that shrewish dissatisfaction with our lives. Maybe it works for other people: suburbanities desperately laboring for a bigger car and smaller ass than the other lemmings of the herd. I'm not much of a herd creature, unfortunately. However long I agonizingly relive my past and rescript every line like a bitter and talentless old film critic, I'm still living a life so lacking in worth that it would fall somewhere below Strom Thurmond: The Prenatal Years.

I find myself hating middle-aged housewives searching for importance at the art stores I mournfully frequent. I watch them tensely from the corner of my eye as I wander those narrow aisles, hand stretched out to brush over each color without ever quite touching. I'm afraid to buy anything, afraid of committing my meager income to a frivolity I may never summon the courage to actually use. But these greying women blissfully fill carts with second-rate pastels and teach-yourself kits, already dreaming of their first gallery showing.

Outside, men in dark suits stride purposefully down the streets like emergency room doctors to their inconsequential lunches, immaculate gangs of future corporate businessmen, in training to rob pensions and crush blue-collar lives. The tidily dressed maids of the expensive hotels follow with less pomp, but they match so well it's hard to separate the two, like dancers at some grand waltz in fancy dress. I haven't decided if I am just the little girl left outside, or perhaps the main course, stewing quietly in the corner.

I'm not fooled by the lower class, wondering about their wasted potential and unnoticed misfortunes. It's a frivolity for well-off college kids looking for griefs in others because they don't have enough of their own yet. There are no Shakespeares out there, no Berninis-in-disguise, bumming cigarettes on the street corner. I imagine we could all be Mozarts, set on the right path and pushed along until we can't turn back. But how many of us can make it there on our own? I don't know if anyone can or ever did achieve *that* act of genius. We all have our little fortunes that others envy, the little presents from fate that often go unnoticed, but carry us through hurdles others can never surmount. In the end, any artist is rated on his life's work, not his potential. Wasn't that Solon's axiom, after all?

In fact, a lack of opportunity is at times the gift from fate that creates the genius which I seem to lack. I don't mean to be fickle, rejecting my own talents because they weren't the ones I wanted, like some pouty birthday girl wishing for one Barbie over another. But I can't help but wonder that if I had been less skilled at writing, if I had shown less interest in math, less passion for music, if I had perhaps shown a general failing in all other categories, if that might not have been the gift I needed to make me pursue art with more determination. If maybe all those other artists out there, working and selling and drinking martinis with self-deprecating wit at their first big exhibition, are simply so much better than me because they are, in fact, not better than me, but simply not good enough at anything else to be distracted. I do what I must to pay the bills, and if I had been unable to make the money so much more easily by playing at a computer, perhaps I might have had to work a little harder, eaten a little less, lived a little more squalidly, as the desperate, hungry artist that I still have the outright middle-class gall to envy while I drink my moderately priced French wine and watch my latest DVD.

And it always comes back to the television, doesn't it? That time-waster, that mind-sucking, creativity-destroying, social-skills-eroding void of cheap entertainment. Everyone likes to blame the TV for our modern apathy. And in a sense it does shut off the mind, presenting us with a ready-made story which we only have to sit back and passively enjoy. Kind of like reading. Like music. Like art. It seems humanity has filled the world with media to distract us from the much-less enjoyable real world we only stay in long enough to bring home a paycheck.

Like Dorothy, we live in a world of grays, depressing, boring, where we are nothing more than one of six billion: easily replaced, completely common. But I think we desperately want that world of color, that perfect fairy tale, where we are the main character and whatever happens, good or bad, happens because we wanted it so. In the real world, all of our choices seem to have bad endings, and most of what happens is outside our control anyway. We face downsizing, divorce, financial ruin, unwanted families, bickering and demanding relatives, finger-pointing coworkers, a wildly careening economy and an electoral college which simply validates our insignificance on the planet. I don't think I need to be Cinderella to be happy, with my own personal fairy concierge, but even the Wicked Stepsisters had a choice in how their story ended.

So we invent Santa Clause and aliens and tarot cards and the whims of God, just to bring some sense, some magic back into our lives. Just so we can close our eyes and imagine that we will be OK, that the world will stop spinning around us and we won't grow old and die, we won't be homeless tomorrow so our CEO can go to Hawaii for Christmas, we won't be alone and scared as we stare down that dark and uncertain future, which we may share with six billion other humans, but which we still have to trod all by ourselves. The middle-class housewife closes her eyes and dreams of a world where she is the center of attention, talented and beautiful and beloved. The businessman dreams of the corner office where he directs the company, and instead of being the victim of layoffs, he goes to Hawaii and drives the luxury car in his Armani suits. The maid dreams of saving enough money to send her daughter to college, of spoiling her grandchildren and retiring comfortably to Florida. The perfect fairy tales, and perhaps I was too harsh in condemning them. At least they are dreaming.

Art was my dreaming. My own little bit of magic, captured on paper to be held as close as a cyncial atheist, a girl who loathes society and often herself, as close as I could ever get to those dreams. And yet I walk my dreamless path instead, afraid, I guess, to let my own magic be exposed to the gray light of day, to be unmasked and declared a fraud. As long as I hide it, it will be my own fairy tale, the dream of my dreams. And every moment is a little more gray, and a little more hopeful at once, as I walk that line between grasping it and losing it. One morning the suspense will be too much for me, one morning I'll have to give in, have to give it a try, just to see if the reality might be as wonderful as the dream.

But right now, I think I'll go watch TV.

copyright 2003 mleiv, any reproduction or distribution expressly prohibited

Posted 2003.12.06 12:00 | Last modified 2003.12.06 12:00 | Leave a reply

Cursed

What black mark was inscribed on my forehead at birth, what sign of evil scratched on my door? While all the other children played their simple-minded games, who told them what I was and why I must be feared? An aura of darkness permeates all my social contacts, a curse impedes my very existence--an existence which can only be a blight upon the universe which the earth and all its inhabitants strive daily to exterminate.

Standing in the shadows, hiding from the baleful eye of God, my steps pass isolation on one side and grief on the other. The clock marks each destructive event, counting away the pain without a pause, and the only end in sight the very end of ME. My body broken over the knee of Fate, after it was beaten day in and day out for no known reason.

Is it merely that defiant gaze, a refusal to submit, to admit to any wrong? An angry child glowering at the unfair world, dark eyes holding in their depths a checklist of capriciously inflicted wounds, threatening only in that knowledge of hurts which can never be acknowledged and so must be destroyed. Does the universe cover up its crimes like an abusive mother, burying the evidence, leaving only the eyes to tell the story? But who would see? A multitude of accomplices instead crowd me in, hostile and cruel.

I have no higher power to which to plead for rescue, no refuge to hide within. Everything and everywhere is the hand of that punishing force. My only defence is my very insignificance, on which pain casts doubt as each insubstantial blow hits flesh. And if I fight back, I become the monster I see in every eye, and so must face the monster's fate: a typecast villain inescapeably defeated by the Good, never knowing who drew those lines in the sand and why I ended up on one side and my enemies on the other.

Why must I always be wrong? Why am I the Evil and they the Good? There is no impartial scale on which were weighed my transgressions, but an arbitrary assessment conducted, overlooking the crimes of others while tallying my every virtue against me as a vice. Am I to take from this incomprehensible prejudice my own illegitimacy in the world? The child of some absent universe, a changeling soul adrift in a foreign land? But am I ever to be retrieved or merely to be destroyed, left to cry on the doorstep until I am worn down by weather and die of sorrow.

And that hypothetical Absolute Good which I seem to have violated? Is it not a simply some intangible value we were taught to seek? Like a culture taught which skin is better, which weight, which color of eye... How can creatures always presented with a blue sky measure the comparative attractive qualities of red, or green, or yellow? We only see beauty in what is, at essence, a part of ourselves: the ultimate narcissistic evaluation of our universe. Am I not beautiful? Are not the shadows of evening, painted in blues and purples and black, a beauty of contrast and haunting threat? A building burning, a figure dying in splendid, absolute abandon: how can we not accept these images as well? Or are we looking through the eye of a beholder raised on simple cartoons, simple plots, where only the daisies in the field can touch our hearts?

My crime, my ultimate failing, must be rooted in that misunderstanding. I am missing that one part of humanity that allows me to judge the world around me in an arbitrary and unthinking manner, without ever questioning my conclusions or imagining the view beyond my own narrow circle of companions. I drink it all in--shadow and light, right and wrong, clear and clouded--without ever filtering it through that necessary colander of Moral Code. I want to hold everything in my mind, I want to defy my own preconceptions. I want to see in the dark like a predatory cat, moving outside the edges of civilisation, abandoned and dangerous. But there is a power in that solitude, a brilliance that exists only in its violation of boundaries.

And so I find myself twisting pain into art, using my misery for inspiration, like so many before me. For Disney does not create Goethe. And perhaps this is the most amusing irony of all: that the very things which the universe is maliciously destroying are its most intriguing and stunning creations. Worn by ice and wind and floods and time, I can stand by the Grand Canyon and smile. That insubstantial force can beat me down, but it can never win. I will always be something more than its billions of obedient lackeys. Whatever grief and misery I face, that is my comfort. No matter my end, my life was such that I have already said my peace, I have already spit in the eye of God.

copyright 2002 mleiv, any reproduction or distribution expressly prohibited

Posted 2003.02.19 12:00 | Last modified 2003.02.19 12:00 | Leave a reply

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