Monday - Once More into the Breach ...

When I was a child, I remember seeing my father, and thinking that he always looked so sad.

It took me years to finally figure out why he looked that way, but eventually I did. I think most of us, though by all means not all of us, don’t necessarily want to acknowledge the ugly truths in our past. It’s especially difficult when we have to face the failings of those for whom we are taught not to find fault. Our parents are somehow above all the things that make people human. It’s only mortality that makes us face the fact that they’re human.

In general, but not always; some of us have to deal with the fact that they’re not only human, but very flawed ones, well before that. I am one such.

I realized my father looked sad because he was always struggling financially, emotionally, and eventually medically. He was fighting an uphill battle against a foe he could not defeat, and would not retreat from for whatever reason(s). He looked sad because he was sad. He was sad that his life had gone the way it did without, at least in his mind, any recourse for him to take.

In August of 2002, my wife and I suffered a traumatic event in our lives that would change it forever. At first, we felt that this was a fresh opportunity, a new chance to do things with our lives that wouldn’t have been possible before. We soon learned, however, that this was not the case. It was a cataclysm of unparalleled proportions in our life together and it left only ruins and wreckage in its wake like a tsunami. While the devastation was initially only financial, it soon spread and left us emotionally and mentally wounded and reeling. It left us physically drained and exhausted, and it would be years before we began to recover.

Before that recovery began, we were treated to horrors in the name of "love" that I can't begin to describe. We were stripped of everything we had materially, and stripped of our dignity. We were accused of being liars, and thieves, of abandoning our children, of seeking a way out of debt into a "new lifestyle." We were accused of not trying to resolve our situation though we suffered devastation and financial hardships trying. We were accosted at every turn, chased and eventually run out of our only "refuge" into the world. Those circumstances left us with nothing and no one to aid us.

Through it all, we tried to have faith. Repeatedly, that faith failed us and left us falling into the chasm that opened beneath us.

We finally felt that, despite the awful losses we’d been dealt, we could endure and that our lives were getting back on track in May of 2004. That never really manifested, though, and we are now once again staring into the face of the same overwhelming forces that nearly destroyed us before. What little support structure we had in years past is gone now, and should we fall, the fall will be much longer, farther and greater than before. We have absolutely no safety net now.

I sit and live my life in fear, and each moment that goes by is spent battling those palpitations of my heart and pulse that shoot burning harpoons of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I sleep fitfully, listlessly, and without rest. I can’t relax and just enjoy myself, because the future continually becomes the present and thence past, with each clock tick bringing doom closer to my doorstep once again. And I hear my son’s voice as he plays, and watch my infant daughter as she sleeps, and wonder for how much longer that will be my privilege. And I become very sad.

I wonder if one day soon, my children will look back on life and say, “My father always looked so sad …”

If you're praying people, pray for us please.

-JDT-

Sunday ... Inertia

In thinking about the last two weeks, I’ve been realizing that I’m prone to inertia. A body at rest tends to stay at rest.

That physics principle is a guiding universal one, but how is it that, at nearly four decades old, I still haven’t managed to find a way around that for myself?

As a case in point, the force that brought me to rest was a serious cold or flu; I know not which it was, but it was hard. I missed a few days of work, but with my income dependent on my ability to log hours, I hadn’t the luxury of actually recuperating. As such, it likely took longer to recover than it should have. Not to mention other mitigating factors.

In the end, the result was that I came home from work exhausted. Between trying to help my wife raise our children and life just being lived, and having no one that can offer us help for whatever reason(s), I simply didn’t have the energy or desire to do anything after work. I was in bed normally by 10:30 p.m., and slept most of the night through. Get up and repeat the cycle the following day. The weekends were spent recovering from the week’s activities. Grocery delivery services are wonderful, I can tell you.

Here I am, feeling MUCH better, but still unable to draw. I just have no motivation. I come home from work, I play with the kids a bit, eat, and then plop myself into a chair to stare at the television for the rest of the night. It’s not something I’m proud of or pleased about, and yet there seems to be little I can do about it. I’ve posted some older work (meaning within the last few months) on various art boards, hoping something that someone said would motivate me to keep my pencil moving, but that hasn’t happened. I’m just … blocked.

I’ve heard a lot of artists going through similar things, but they seem to come out of it, and I can’t figure out what they’re doing, how they’re doing it and what I should do to break this stasis. It’s torturing me to have finally, after nearly nine years, reconnected with my artwork and not be able to find the time, motivation and the willingness to just grab a pencil and sketch. I’ve been close, but not close enough. It’s similar to writer’s block, but isn’t from lack of an idea or inspiration – although that’s a distinct part of it. I just … don’t draw, and the days slip ceaselessly away from me. Another finite and irreplaceable chunk of lifetime is lost to cursed inertia.

I don’t know how this will end, and I don’t know when I’ll break through this mental barrier (and I am convince it is mental), but I want to find a way. I need something that sparks me enough to at least finish some of the drawings that I’ve started, and left unfinished, but I have no idea what that something may be. This is the first time, in my memory, that I can remember running into this with my art – in other areas, it’s a somewhat regular occurrence and I know how to cure it. My wife is usually good for some insight here, but even there I’ve come up empty.

If you have an answer, I’m open to hearing it – though saying “draw through it” isn’t an option. I need more than that to get from here to there. That solution would help for feeling as though I’ve stagnated in progress, but does nothing for this quagmire.

God bless, everyone, and thanks for reading this if you did. Suggestions are welcomed and gratitude to those that make them.

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-