I thought I would never be a blogger, who cares what I have to say? A friend said no, no, you do not understand you have to be a blogger!
Here is kind of’ how it went,
My Friend: “Man, you really need to start a blog.”
Me: “A blog, why do I need to start a blog?”
My Friend: “So you can tell people about your artwork!”
Me: “But, I already have a website showing my artwork.”
My Friend: “Yeah, but now you have to tell them about it.”
Me: “Tell them about it? What should I tell them?”
My Friend: “Tell them about that time your mother locked you in a closest for a week for drawing pictures on the wall with a crayon.”
Me: “My mother never locked me in a closet for a week for drawing on the wall!”
My Friend: “Oh…, well tell them about the time that French girl broke your heart by cheating on you with the psychology professor.”
Me: “I’ve never even dated a French girl!”
My Friend: “What, about the time you went to art class after staying out all night and threw up on a canvas for your final exam.”
Me: “Wasn’t me.”
My Friend: “Oh well……, that’s too bad.”
Me: “Why is that too bad?”
My Friend: “Sounds like you are going to have a pretty boring blog.”
Me: “What?”
My Friend: “People want to know what it is that draws you to the creative process. They want to know what it is that inspires, torments, tortures your soul to get your creative juices flowing! They want to feel your pain.”
Me: “I’m not in any pain and I’m not running for President, I’m trying to sell some artwork.”
My Friend: “You better start a blog then…………….”
So it begins, I shall start my blog off with an honest statement of fact. My main purpose for starting a blog is to promote myself, to show and tell the world what I have to offer as an artist. However, in honor of my friend who urged me to start a blog, I will share with you a short story.
I was a small child when I began drawing pictures on the wall. Mother did not like it when I drew pictures on the wall. She had warned me many times. Her warnings where in vain until one afternoon she actually caught me in the act of drawing an elephant, drinking water from a wishing fountain, on the dining room wall of our modest two bed room home.
Mother locked me in the closet. It took a full day to realize that perhaps she may never let me out. After day three, I began carving figures in the woodwork along the baseboards of the closet with my fingernails. By the end of the week, I knew that I wanted nothing else but to be an artist. I began seeing visions, mirages on a faraway unreachable dune, of my artwork appearing in fine galleries all over the world. I had to get away.
One morning after mother had left the house I heard a noise from the front porch. The noise was a familiar voice. It was Victoria Martins voice. She was the beautiful young French girl who lived next door. I screamed, hoping she would hear me. She did.
Victoria came around to the back of the house and found a way inside. I was beating frantically on the inside of the closet door when she unlocked and opened it, releasing me from the real and imagined restraints placed on me by mother. We ran away from that place as far as we could. I knew I would never return.
We found a place where we felt completely at home. It was a place we felt peace. We were young and in love. Yet we were responsible and waited over ten years until we were both of legal age. We had sex. Life was good.
She went to a community college while I attended a second rate art school that did not even have a website. Not even a blog. One afternoon, figure structure class cancelled because they could not convince the model to take off her robe. I was quite disappointed. I rushed to see Victoria to lift my spirits. I returned to our apartment to find her engaged in carnal knowledge with her psychology professor. They were in my favorite armchair.
I ran from that apartment in a blind rage. I stopped at several bars consuming drink after drink, trying desperately to forget the image of Victoria with another man. I awoke in an alley the next morning. Good Lord, it was 8:15am. I was late for my final exam in Theories of Color.
I ran across the small town. I ran through the town square, past the courthouse and beyond old man Johnsons Dairy Farm. I reached the campus at 8:24am. I rushed inside the door of my classroom. The professor glared at me in disgust. I reached my workstation where my assignment was a fresh canvas awaiting my interpretation of periwinkle.
The afternoon and night before came back to me suddenly and without warning. The regurgitation process, brought on by stale liquor sloshing around the stomach from a crosstown run, could not be controlled. I lost the entire contents within a few seconds. The vile explosion covered the entire canvas in complete disclosure of my recent activities. The bad news, no tones of periwinkle were found.
I failed that class. I have not seen Victoria since. I would like to think that my art is the result of dedication and hard work, but I know deep down it’s the product of Mother, Victoria, a Psychology professor and a blank canvas.
