Before I started to drift a bit, lose my spark for my own art (though I do well continuing to do freelance for others), I was more easy with myself. I would do whatever was in my head, whether I shared it or not, and had fun with it. I think sometimes about the stereotypes of the dramatic, emotion filled artist. It is really hard for me to do art when I’m not in a good place. I do better when I’m full of moxie and whimsy and the ideas flow.
When I’m hurting or grieving or sad, it’s like a dam goes up. I don’t know if it is a catharsis for me then. Music usually is – I listen or play, but I don’t share. My visual art and projects tend to just… stop. I’ve been struggling with this for a bit.
I attended a medium university. My major was graphic design but the art program for design was newish and on top of our design studio and survey we had to get our hands into just about everything – including sociology, economics, and philosophy.
I had painting survey and studio. I had my friends in university, but as far as the art department and classes I kept to myself a bit. By my third year, I had gotten myself in a bad situation that I tried to not bring attention to – it affected me in every way and would take two and half years before I would get out of it.
I still did my best. I started to struggle with sharing in my painting studio, always looking at what others did and trying to force those feelings out of me instead of clamming up.
I had a project due, an oil, and I only had three primary colors and some white. I didn’t have the funds for any more. I would walk the mile to campus in the middle of the night and sign myself into the attic studio at the old art building and try and think.
A friend had given me a Spider-man pez dispenser. The candy was gross, but I started carrying it around in my pocket. It was a weird grounding object for me. I would fidget with it, offer other people the candy, just generally hold onto it like it was something that kept me tethered.
So I sat in the studio, staring at my canvas. If I remember correctly, I had Led Zeppelin blasting in my headphones. I took the Pez dispenser out and set it next to my easel, just to dig for something in my pocket. I had an idea. One that made me laugh, and I needed a laugh at that moment.
And thus was born my only oil painting (I found over time I preferred the chaos of watercolors) to date. I can’t remember what my professor said about it – I don’t think he ever really liked what I did. I liked him a lot, but he was kind of edgy and one of those people that went to Burning Man before Burning Man was glamping for techbros and heiresses. But I think he appreciated that I had some sort of wonderland going on inside my head even if I didn’t say much.
This may be one of my favorite things I have ever done, because it means a lot to me. The skill is questionable, I had no idea what I was doing with oil, my supplies were limited, but it’s a pure example of something that passes through my head. The black is latex house paint that I bartered a granola bar for when someone else was in there with the can open.
What if the Pez dispenser’s Spidey sense went off when someone reached for it?
I actually had a triptych study of Mike Mignola’s Hellboy for composition class that was tempera on some weird slick paper that I can’t remember but they were either stolen or lost after the student art show.
I still need to get some sort of gilded frame for this thing. It still makes me happy.
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