I was sitting in a near empty cafe. I go there about twice a week: "Table for one... coffee and a danish... thank you." The book was "Art and Fear." When I read the book at work, I hide the title with my hand, with a slight fear of being caught... because I find it incredibly hard to explain myself.
But there are questions running rampant in my head... I feel them as though they are boiling with in a small space, with no holes for the pressure escape. As though I recieved a kick in the stomach, and the injury remains. I feel this disabling emotion: a stew of guilt and failure served hot.
The questions are simple: why do students give up? why is art necessary? am I a bad person for wanting to be an artist? What if my art is no longer familar to me? How do I get rid of all these anxieties, so I can start? What if it isn't the same?
The waitress brought me the coffee. The book explained: yes, students give up because in the insitution art is made with constant feed back, the young artist is driven by naive passion with out knowin the obstacles her work will face with out the protection of academia.. a real artist rises as a result of the times, and is everyday person with a reflection of an everyday reality. The obstacles are: people don't care if an artist creates or not, art is on decadence, art is misunderstood... I generally find myself on shaky ground, trying to stabilize myself, none the less having this feeling that I constantly have to defend myself.
I'll admit I switched to an art major on a whim with out fully knowing what it truly takes to become an artist... you get out of school, and say, "I studied art." then bam, the person says, "why? where are the jobs? what were you thinking?" then I feel this critical hit to my confidence. "I'm sorry... I don't know the answer to any of these questions." Then I find myself pacing, what have I done, what have I done... while in college, my answer would have been, "because it's the right thing for me to do."
In moments where I feel the truest break down of character, where I feel as though my personal flame is about to be stamped out, I find this small confidence, "don't give it up... it's going to take time... keep searching for places and people to help support you. Hold out, start simple... my sketch book has these quiet studies... a painting is out of reach, but still within sight"
Monday, October 24, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
New Job
Night shift... and factory night shift..
my first week there.. I realized it is best to be separated to avoid rumors, cliques, and awkward conversations. I was warned in advanced that the factory is male dominated, the work is harder, the hours are longer, and machines are unforgiving. I realized it's been better to just keep with in myself... I am not as muscular as most of my coworkers, but I can move quickly for long periods of time which allows me to keep pace. As I work I watch the color of the sky through the opaque glass roughly two stories above me. I like the periwinkle color of the early dawn, and deep, solid, dark navy of the sky in the dead of night.
The factory is very loud. There are screams and wails of the air being removed from the packages, and escaping machines, the loud clangs of the grider, the chug of mechanical arms and elbows, and clutter bangs all around. My co workers comminuicate mostly using hand signals. Two nights ago my machine broke down completely, my trainer waved at me to follow her.
We went down these flimsy metal stars, and slammed closed this large metal sealed door, and into the basement beneath the machines... There was a long hallway and heaps of powdered sterofoam beaneath these large steal cynlinders. These long bulbs of light were held by chains from the cynder block ceiling and swayed animating the shadows.. She walked over to the cynlinder beneath the machine I was working with... it was the most cluttered with heaps of artifical snow. Warning signs were stickered all over images of severed fingers, caution sharp blades inside, danger, caution, hot... "do not touch these, but check to see if your grinder is full," my trainer said, "You can tell just by observation,".. I looked around, and I had this weird sensation that I've been here before...not here, but some where like here..
factories have always attracted me. I like machines, I like industry, I like how people transform into inefficient machines, I like the colors of smoke, I like the textures of raw materials... I like the feeling knowing that there are places to work at... at home. Industry is the only part of me that is nationalist... I like knowing where things are coming from, how things are made, and who is making them... I like working, and I like the impact of enirvoments made on people, I like the inspiration... I have dual interests as much as I like industry, I love nature.... it's just there is this complication between fragile ecosystems, technology, and the human factor
my first week there.. I realized it is best to be separated to avoid rumors, cliques, and awkward conversations. I was warned in advanced that the factory is male dominated, the work is harder, the hours are longer, and machines are unforgiving. I realized it's been better to just keep with in myself... I am not as muscular as most of my coworkers, but I can move quickly for long periods of time which allows me to keep pace. As I work I watch the color of the sky through the opaque glass roughly two stories above me. I like the periwinkle color of the early dawn, and deep, solid, dark navy of the sky in the dead of night.
The factory is very loud. There are screams and wails of the air being removed from the packages, and escaping machines, the loud clangs of the grider, the chug of mechanical arms and elbows, and clutter bangs all around. My co workers comminuicate mostly using hand signals. Two nights ago my machine broke down completely, my trainer waved at me to follow her.
We went down these flimsy metal stars, and slammed closed this large metal sealed door, and into the basement beneath the machines... There was a long hallway and heaps of powdered sterofoam beaneath these large steal cynlinders. These long bulbs of light were held by chains from the cynder block ceiling and swayed animating the shadows.. She walked over to the cynlinder beneath the machine I was working with... it was the most cluttered with heaps of artifical snow. Warning signs were stickered all over images of severed fingers, caution sharp blades inside, danger, caution, hot... "do not touch these, but check to see if your grinder is full," my trainer said, "You can tell just by observation,".. I looked around, and I had this weird sensation that I've been here before...not here, but some where like here..
factories have always attracted me. I like machines, I like industry, I like how people transform into inefficient machines, I like the colors of smoke, I like the textures of raw materials... I like the feeling knowing that there are places to work at... at home. Industry is the only part of me that is nationalist... I like knowing where things are coming from, how things are made, and who is making them... I like working, and I like the impact of enirvoments made on people, I like the inspiration... I have dual interests as much as I like industry, I love nature.... it's just there is this complication between fragile ecosystems, technology, and the human factor
Thursday, February 17, 2011
thinking things through
I've been working a lot. Things are better than they were before. I got promoted to a shift supervisor, and I've been gaining more work experience and responsibility. It's just been challenging trying to make the demands of student loans... I have this weight on my conscience that I am not ready to marry under the circumstances and debt, I will bring into the relationship. I've been thinking about joining the Navy for some help with loans, and work experience... I'm just nervous.
I've been doing volunteer work for a group called Art Smart. I had a meeting at a crowded cafe in Lancaster City with the director this morning. I explained my feelings about helping kids who are in the correction facility. I'll admit it's intimidating, but the cause is worth while. I will be planing a mural project for them coming up in March. The director shifted conversations and asked me about my work...
... ... I admited that I've been picking up pieces. That to create is harder than it was before... .. I've spent so much money towards my education, and a complete hault is in my near future. The director agreed and said,"well most fine artists don't make it.." My throat felt choked so I put down my coffee.. She continued, "however there is a wall for emerging artists, I got some connections, if you got a a cohesive body of work, and courage."
I said,"that would be really helpful."
where to start?
I've been doing volunteer work for a group called Art Smart. I had a meeting at a crowded cafe in Lancaster City with the director this morning. I explained my feelings about helping kids who are in the correction facility. I'll admit it's intimidating, but the cause is worth while. I will be planing a mural project for them coming up in March. The director shifted conversations and asked me about my work...
... ... I admited that I've been picking up pieces. That to create is harder than it was before... .. I've spent so much money towards my education, and a complete hault is in my near future. The director agreed and said,"well most fine artists don't make it.." My throat felt choked so I put down my coffee.. She continued, "however there is a wall for emerging artists, I got some connections, if you got a a cohesive body of work, and courage."
I said,"that would be really helpful."
where to start?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
