If you don't bring forth what is within you, what is within you will destroy you

I believe this is paraphrased from a Biblical reference. Not being a Biblical scholar, or even a Christian, I have no idea whether that is true. It sounds ominous enough to have come from the Bible, but what do I know. I'm just a poor white trash atheist. What appeals to me about the concept is the somewhat comforting affirmation that it's okay to acknowledge my creative urge to self-express. More than okay, it's imperative.

Nothing can stop me from expressing who I am!

Lately I have been feeling an upswell of creativity. It seems to have reawakened during the time I spent waiting for my Chair to respond to my first concept paper submission (only to discover she didn't actually have access to the paper, another story, see previous rant). All that time on my hands waiting, what to do, what to do. I know. I'll create something.

When I was a kid, I was always writing, painting, drawing. It was my natural state. All kids are creative. I was no exception, but I think I might have been more intense about it than my friends or classmates. I felt the urge to express like a physical wave coming over me, forcing me to sneak away to be alone with my tempera paints and Prismacolors.

In the beginning my creativity was like breathing air. Had to have it. But over time, things changed. I changed. As I grappled with the painful realities of survival in Los Angeles, my desire to create got entangled with my urgent need to earn money. I fell into the trap of believing that my art was obligated to support me, instead of the other way around.

My mantra was: I am willing to earn doing what I love. As if it were simply a matter of mind over reality. Sadly, it is not that simple for me. In my experience, this is not a society that supports artists, unless you follow the party lines and make acceptable art (see previous rant on Thomas Kinkade).

Artists are subject to the same laws of supply and demand as other producers. I'd like to think that art is exempt; it goes against the very definition of art to condemn art-making to the whims of the market. The truth is, I'm just cranky that the demand for art never included the kind of art that I made. My art was acceptable—I was acceptable—when I painted landscapes and flowers. When I graduated to painting lush images of nude females, the titillation and embarrassment in the family manifested as ridicule and feeble pleas to paint something "nice."

My desire to force my art to support me led me down the dark path of art "made-to-order," which isn't art at all, but a perversion perpetrated upon dreamers by a cruel and unsophisticated society. Well, I'd like to blame pretentious collectors and creators of "art," but truthfully, I lost my sense of self and sold out to the almighty dollar. Yes, I did paint a canvas for someone to hang over her couch. Yes, I drew pictures to go on greeting cards. Yes, I sketched space costumes of transparent vinyl for topless Vegas dancers. Yes, I drew a pen-and-ink caricature of my friend's daughter's chihuahua wearing a basketball uniform.

Art made-to-order, also known as commissions, spells doom for an artist like me. My art is self-expression. I can't express someone else's self through my art. It is psychically and physically impossible. When I succumb to the siren call of money and make art to get some, I can't call it art, and I can't claim to be an artist. It feels odd to recognize that, in these days of "all but dissertation," I am feeling strangely creative, and more and more inclined to arrange my life to support my art. More to be revealed on that, I'm sure. And oddly enough, the more I write in this blog, the more I want to create. That old feeling of "must express" has started to return at odd moments. After I write a blog post, I want to keep expressing. It is like something I thought long dead is opening its eyes and stirring its wings.

The art I make now is for me. As pure as it has ever been. And now I know my job is to bring forth what is within me, no matter what. I don't care if you think it is in bad taste. I don't care if you are offended. I don't care if you would rather see butterflies, mushrooms, and fairies. Go buy a Thomas Kinkade. Go buy a velvet Elvis. Put any stupid thing in a frame and call it art. You'll be in good company. But you cannot have what is uniquely mine. I'm closed. The sign says Shut. Not for sale, not at any price.