I Did Something Right ... and Something Wrong

I never seem to get things just ... right.

I tried to update an image on my DeviantArt page, and ended up deleting it -- along with all the wonderful comments, encouragement, tips and other helpful remarks make by those that took time and effort to look at the damned thing for me.

I feel like a heel. On the upside, I got some input from someone to enable me to move the image, resize it, and eliminate the sketch lines in gray from the image. So, it's up and running as a nice B/W piece now, and it's finished (albeit it's not wonderful).

Thanks to any and all that saw the original, took time to comment, and gave me advice. I'm so sorry I lost those things.

And above all things, I hate stupidity. Yet we are close companions, he and I.

God bless, everyone. I'll update soon. And here's the new image:

A Night To Remember ... Sunday

A woman I'd never seen before in my life came to me tonight while I was out on my back deck enjoying the crisp, cool autumn evening.

She asked me if I'd seen a little boy.

I was a bit shocked. It turns out that the little boy was missing. No one knew where he was.

I told her my wife had seen him, sitting on his bright yellow plastic chair on the second floor balcony of his apartment. They spoke for a few minutes. When she came in, she told me she was worried. It didn't seem like much. Hours later, this woman, a friend of the parents, was looking for him. He was not in the apartment, which was on the second floor, and he wasn't accessible to anyone else that they knew who may have him. The mother was at work.

I was, instantly, sticken and worried. The boy in question was one that I'd seen from time to time with his dad, in the parking lot, walking together. He was younger than my own son, who will be four next month. I told the woman that I would get a flashlight and help her look; it had been hours since my wife saw him.

The father was looking for the boy. He was young, and explained to me that the little boy was wearing a red and cream set of pajamas. He gave the boy's name. I didn't ask if they'd contacted the police. I knew they hadn't; I just began wandering around the grounds, shining my flashlight in corners and bushes, under cars, behind air conditioner units -- anywhere I could think of in which a small child may have hidden ... or worse.

I prayed. I prayed frantically, distractedly. My heart was pounding. As I wandered around a stand of tall, wild grass, which looked like a patch of reeds beside a water hole, I was scared. I was scared to see that flash of color, some indication that something terrible had happened. I prayed and tromped, feeling my feet get wet as the water in the wet ground sopped into my worn shoes. I shone the light into the grass deeply, staring with eyes that did not want to see. It was horrible. I could feel my pulse in my temples, in my stomach, in my throat ... and I could hear myself muttering to God quietly for everything to be okay, not to let this be what it could be.

I came back and was met by the father; he asked if I'd found anything. I said I hadn't, but that his flashlight was better, and perhaps we could look together. We walked around the building again silently, not speaking, each of us shining our lights into the ominous dark places that can conceal evil deeds.

We worked through the immediate parking lot and the mother came home, hurried and trying to be upbeat. She greeted me with a subdued "hi," as she moved to ask if the little boy had been found yet. Her arms folded across her chest told me the answer though I could not hear.

The haunted look in their eyes was what struck me most. It sent shivers down my spine. Another stranger joined the search, and we worked our way farther away from our building. The night seemed colder, darker than before. I shivered again as the hushed mood and whispers continued.

It was more than half an hour later now. We'd looked in every possible nook and cranny around the buildings. There was no sign of him. The woman that approached me, the friend of the father, rejoined us with that same hollow, zombie stare in her eyes. No one wanted to think it; wanted even less to say it. She quietly suggested that perhaps the next step was to contact the police.

The father silently pulled his cell phone out and dialed. I trailed behind the two of them, as the mother came up from behind me, her arms still folded over her chest. Her steps were rushed, urgent, her voice tight and controlled. She called to the father and asked me to whom he was speaking. I told her I didn't know, but he'd made a call to someone. She hurried past me. In a moment, I heard the voices rise, excitement.

The boy had been found. He was at the local police station.

I nearly collapsed. I tightened my throat to keep from weeping.

It was more excitement than I wanted on a Sunday at nearly ten o'clock. But I prayed jubilantly and in gratitude for the boy being found safely. When I came into our home, the look on my wife's face told me she'd been praying intensely too. My smile told her everything. I felt the relief wash through me as I told her what had transpired.

We spent the rest of the evening being as near to our children as we could get.

I'm so glad, so grateful Lord, that this time, it turned out well. Far, far too often, it does not.

Thank you, Lord.

Wednesday Wonderings

I missed an entry date. And frankly, I don't know that any of you want to hear from me that often anyway.

So, I'll have less time over the next few days/weeks to do this, and I'm going to try and make them better in terms of thinking them through.

Today an artist posted her work on DA. Not unusual, right? When I commented on it, I got a response. That is unusual. But that's not what I'm talking about here -- her response was that, on another board, someone had torn it apart for her and she hated the piece.

I know, as artists, we all have certain expectations of our work that we can't and don't meet. I know that we strive for better and better things from ourselves and we hope that, with each honest and constructive criticism, we can grow. I also know, from the experience of others, that in certain circles (if not universally), you will not be handled with kid gloves when you submit artwork for professional review and critiques. In fact, some of the critiques can be downright mean.

It's their goal to be destructive and show you where you lack. It's our responsibility not to be destroyed, and not to throw the baby out with the bath water. Take what gold there is among the debris and improve. The next time, that rude and inconsiderate art director -- who is convinced they're doing you a favor by being rude and asinine -- will have to find other areas to be a jackass about with regard to your work.

That being established, and acknowledging that this is a fact for those of you trying to be professional artists, is it really necessary that we be destructive in our critiques? I've read some that were genuinely and sincerely teaching critiques, but were handled in less than a delicate or even polite way. The terminology used was degrading and harsh. The response to questioning was "Well, an art director isn't going to be polite. They're going to be rude." Okay, that's true; it's stupid and it's unnecessary -- and it stems from being a self-inflated narcissist with nothing better to do than demean the work of others IMHO -- but it's true. So what? Does that give us open season on one another? Does that provide the justification for being harsh and insensitive -- or worse, deliberately cruel -- to other artists whose work we don't hold in esteem? Does that make it okay for us to rip others down and spit on the pieces, in the name of "critique?"

Constructive criticism will help a person grow as an artist, or as a person in general. In most circumstances, it's beneficial to receive criticism. But if the "critique" is cruel and harsh intentionally, and the "critique" is actually barely (if at all) disguised insults and bashing, is that really helpful? What gets you farther -- telling someone nicely what's wrong with their work, or telling them in a way that's designed to be insulting and crass, abrasive? If that's what art directors and instructors do, then that's their problem. You will have to deal with that when the time comes. I still maintain that it's not necessary for us, the other artists to whom this person has turned for guidance, to be the same way. Not only is it not necessary, it's counter-productive.

And this cruelty in critique is new -- relatively new anyway. When I submitted my portfolio to an art studio working in advertising and storyboards years and years ago, I was treated politely and respectfully shown where my art was lacking. I had my portfolio returned to me with a written checklist of the points on which it was evaluated, and that gave me an indication of where I needed to improve (everywhere). I had that paper for years and years, and marked my progress against it at intervals. I wasn't torn down in a destructive, harsh and ridiculously inconsiderate manner. I was encouraged to work on the areas of weakness.

Marvel Comics did the same thing back in the early-mid '90s. I submitted some sequentials, and received a letter back indicating where I was lacking and how to improve them. There was nothing in the letter that was harsh, rude or demeaning. It may have been a form letter for all I know, but it cited areas of weakness for those pages I did, and it helped me as much as any lesson I learned during that time.

The point is this: do we have to be asses to critique someone's work? With all the other people that will be insulting in the work force and industry into which these people are hoping to break, is treating them badly necessary here and on other forums where they are hoping to get guidance and (helpful) feedback to grow?

I say "no." I say that you don't have to be a jackass and a prick to get the artist to find room for improvement.

I'm sure all of you have opinions about this; that is only mine.

If you want to let me know why you feel the same/differently, go ahead. I'm listening/reading. :)

God bless, everyone, and for what it's worth -- I won't be harsh with anyone.
-JDT-

Monday Night

Well, it’s Monday night again, and for us, that means football, so I’ll keep this brief.

First, I want to thank all of you that took the time to read my angst-filled and empathic journal entry. Some of you almost embarrassed me with the compliments you bestowed on me for it. I thank you sincerely; your support means more to me than I could express with mere words. God bless you all, as you have blessed me with your kindness.

I feel that the quality artists on DA and other places have stepped forward and agreed with the fact that they often get ignored on art sites, or are watched by only a handful of others – mostly their friends. I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that, but know that your art and the sensitivity and expression that goes into it are not lost on all of us. As my watch list grows and my free time (seemingly) dwindles, I don’t know that I can comment on all the wonderful pieces you all post all the time, just as all of you can’t comment on the items that I post, either. Please know that I understand, and it doesn’t mean that I don’t care – or that I believe you don’t. I think we do care about each other, and some of the beautiful things you’ve said to me are evidence of that fact.

I’ll not soon forget the blessing you all have provided me this past week; and I won’t let you go unrecognized. As I can, I will send notes of encouragement to you, and try to keep your spirits up; someone special did this for me recently, and I’ll never forget her for it. The very least I can do is give it back to some of you. One of you out there is always, constantly, providing me with insight and reminding me of techniques that I may have forgotten if not for your input on a regular basis; I’m grateful, and if I can ever return the favor, know that I will.

My watch list isn’t something that I use to acknowledge anyone’s efforts on my behalf, though; it’s something that I use when I find great art, or a decent human being, who says or does something (in art or in word, either to me or to someone else) that touches me somehow. I don’t expect you all to reciprocate, and I don’t expect you to fawn all over anything I do. Please, don’t feel that way. But those of you that added me to your watch list, I do appreciate the fact that you either felt the art you saw warranted it, or felt that it was courteous to do so. If my art doesn’t appeal to you, or if you don’t find something of value there or in my journal entries, don’t be afraid to hurt my feelings by removing me from your list. You won’t insult me; I will understand. And I will still appreciate you.

God bless you all, and know that I care about you all. Be love, be safe, be happy.

-JDT-

Friday Night, and Feeling Better

Today, I learned a lesson about what someone that cares about you can do for your inspiration.

Someone of whom I am becoming very fond on DA took time, from all the dozens and dozens of notes, comments and page views that they get, to respond to what I wrote yesterday, and in so doing, proved that I am not alone in the universe. There is someone else in the world that came about this artistic journey in a similar manner to me. Someone that experienced the same path that I walked – trying to teach themselves the specialty of what they wanted to do.

This person, however, was successful at it. I mean, VERY successful. Working in the industry of choice successful, on a TV show you may know or have seen successful. I think that’s incredible; but more incredible is that, despite the terrifying busyness and the incredible pressure of competition, the constant threat of losing a job, that they took the time to write a well-thought-out response to ME, and my rambling, wandering brain. Me, the one who has no interest in becoming a professional artist, who has only worked to improve for himself and his kids (they love my drawings), who only wants to look at what he creates and be happy with it. This person took the time to read my angst, my foolishness … and cared. And let me know that they cared.

I will not reveal the name of this person here, because I don’t have her permission to do so and I don’t want the gushing fans accumulated on DA to swarm with notes and comments hoping for something similar. What I do want to say, however, if that person is now reading this rambling diatribe, is that I am grateful for what you said, the way you said it, and I hope that we will communicate for many, many years to come. I hope also that someday I can return the favor you paid me; I am in your debt. Thank you.

It’s possible, folks. It’s possible to cut through the mindless, thoughtless waves of cyber crap and find gold. I found not just a nugget, but a full vein. Darrell31316, Nick Dean, Slipdance and Lonevixen, all the folks who either marked one of my drawings as a favorite or decided to add me to their friends list, please let me say thank you. I really mean it. I really appreciate the time you give to me, and I know how precious it is. Thank you all.

And, those that prayed for me when I asked, those that took time to answer my posts in my journal or took the time to read what prose I wrote, thank you too. I can’t say thank you enough. Time is hard, there are literally millions of deviations to browse, and you found my stuff. And then expressed interest in it. Thanks; I’m touched, and NOT just in the head. Thank you, sincerely.

Good night all, and have a great weekend. God bless each and every one of you. I will be praying for you.

-JDT-