After a month of not really working on much in my studio, just sketches while watching TV, it feels almost odd to be in this room, like I’m trying to hug a child I abandoned so many times in the past that my affection is no longer trusted. This is how it often feels to me, my art and faith in my own abilities being my child and the depression/anxiety/ADHD/health being the abandoning parent figure. I spend hours, sometimes days, self paralyzed on the couch, barely doing anything besides watching TV and cataloging all the things I should be doing. Housework. Cooking. Writing. Drawing. Painting. Publicizing. Booking. Shit, I haven’t even touched my guitar in six weeks. I have nothing to write about that I want(ambraveenough) to share. I am full of love and equally full of fear.
Make Art Everyday isn’t my mantra, its a law I desperately wish to follow. It is the only way for me to heal, feel full and complete, the only way I fall in love over and over and over and, honestly, what in this world feels better than falling in love? It’s part of the reason I love bars so much. You can meet a new friend and just love them for who they are, right then and there. Sure, loving everyone is dangerous, you’re often misunderstood irreparably, but it feels amazing every time. Painting is like that for me. I draw until I feel that love grow, Grow, GROW, and then I know I’m there. I’ve fallen in love again and that means I’ve made something I want to pursue.
But love is dangerous, it breaks your heart. There is no way around it. Even if you’re together for the rest of your lives, someone dies first. There is just no way around being left with unmet expectations. Again, the same with painting, or even songwriting. There is zero chance that I will like everything I create. Statistically impossible. I create something I don’t really like and my heart breaks a little. I become gun shy. Trepidatious and terrified, I avoid my jilting lover until I can’t anymore. If I want this to be my job then I have to go back to work, no matter the awkward glances and accidental innuendo. I have to be more than cordial, I have to be friendly until it’s finished and I’m ready to fall in love again. I have to own up to my own shortcomings that led to the fall, the hubris of the broken heart flaking off of my plastered smile, showing me how honest I can get when I allow myself to confront the tiny abandoned light inside of me:
I will probably leave again, I know, but you can trust that I will always be back. I promise.