making art, making life.
The world is a very grey and dismal place at times. There are deaths, horrors. We are all alone in these little bodies, floating around, disconnected most of the time- from each other and from the ground we stand on. Most people DO live quietly, desperately, working and thinking and amassing a thousand new worries each day.
Most people walk around afraid, nervous. Or angry. Or just focused on the task at hand, which for more people all the time involves merely surviving the vicissitudes of economy and thrift, of bad jobs or no work. Of struggle. Life is mostly struggle and concern for most people on earth, and for the rest it can be even worse.
It’s our job, as artists, to show people that there is more. I am not a religious person, nor even a spiritual one. I do not believe that there is a sky-man or any kind of conscious entity watching over us carefully, or interested in our problems. I do not believe. BUT- I do believe that the world itself is a being of grace, and by truly seeing it, and being within it, we can lighten our weight. This entails details.
When one is in a chain gang, there will be a beautiful weed sprouting in the ditch. When one has lost hope and is starving, there will be the smell of dry morning air, and the sunrise. When the worries about the future become too much, there is still the present.
I know this doesn’t make up for any of it. I also know that there are times for all of us when we realize our solitude, when we are alone and in pain, in the dark. Cold and possibly hopeless. In those times it is art’s job to expose the alternatives, to bring the world into us and that way bring us out of ourselves.
Art doesn’t have to be “good” or skilled or perfect or even beautiful to do this. It will be a different view for each artist and a different piece that speaks to each viewer. Sometimes the crude and the ugly do this much more effectively than the pretty and the sweet- actually for me, when I am alone and in pain in the dark, it is the reminder that others have been there as well that helps. And art that speaks this way is often NOT beautiful to look at.
I need to sell art to live- to pay rent. To eat. If I could give it away and not be homeless I would. But the necessities of the world insist that my work must be valued at a number. I know that for some the value of their work is low and their hours are long and hard; that they must do work which is difficult, upsetting, dangerous. I am lucky to be an artist, I am privileged in ways not many are. I love my work. That alone is a stroke of fortune.
People who hate their work but must do it deserve my best efforts, because I know that at times my work, seeing my work and interacting with it, is their release and their reminder. Artists have an obligation to try their damnedest to do that, and to do it as best they can every time.
on learning to tattoo.
I get a lot of people asking me how to get started, wanting to show their art and find out if they should try to be tattoo artists.
They will ask about apprenticeships, teaching, equipment, schools, kits, “practicing at home”, “teaching themselves”, and all kinds of other stuff. I took the time a while ago to write up an article explaining how to get into tattooing the right way, how to learn without fucking people up, and how to find a decent place to learn from.
I hope this helps someone decide to go the right path to tattooing, and helps others decide it’s just not worth that much to them.
If you really are dedicated and persistent, if you really, really mean it, then you will eventually get there.
Unless you take shortcuts. Don’t take those. Do it the right way, even though it’s harder at the start.
I don’t review portfolios or teach anyone; but if you have more questions after reading this article, feel free to email me.
“The most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already, without a shadow of doubt, what is laid before him.”
– Leo Tolstoy
kafka
When I die, please pile all of my creative work high on the pyre.
Burn it all down.
Please don’t go through it all, re-edit and assemble it for sale,
and then make a million dollars from my sad,
overworked corpse.
Kafka was firmly of the opinion that if they don’t want it now,
while it can do me some good to sell it,
they can’t have it later,
the bastards.
He worked full-time, NOT as a writer, throughout his life. He would come home tired from long workdays and stay up all night writing.
I’d have been pissed too. They always blame his lack of confidence in his own work- but I think, deep down, it was his fury that he had had to work so goddamn hard all the time while lesser authors had the leisure and funds to write, and to enjoy their lives.
Every time you think “I wish he had written more” ask yourself- when is the last time you PAID A CREATIVE PERSON for something, and spread the word, so they’d have time to write or paint more? People didn’t pay HIM either, so there’s your answer. He never had time, because he had to pay the rent. That’s how most creative people tend to live- I am lucky because my day job is art too, but even so, it’s not free, it’s not MY WORK wholly. Even so.
just a grasshopper, that I drew for my dear, sweet mother.
You haven’t truly lived unless you’ve made your mother cry, worry that you’ve been arrested, wonder where you live for a while, and then cry some more. It’s just what happens when your life is full and exciting.
My mom likes grasshoppers, ducks, and flowers. Now that I’m not a teenage anarchist heathen in her house we get along really well.
We disagree on a lot but she’s one of those people that really does want to do good; her heart is in the right place, and I think mine is too. I miss her; my family is on the opposite coast so I don’t get to see them very often.
This is just a little prismacolor drawing.