The Wizard Series Part II: Learning to Ink Scrolls - Again

I can't remember if I mentioned this before, and I'm too [PIGEONED] lazy right now to search my archives to find out if I did.

I came this close to going to art school.

Indeed, before The Mad Pigeon became the analytical bane of tyrants worldwide I was pimping my portfolio around Northeastern art schools.

But I burnt out.  Bad.  Real bad.  As in, I went from acrylic portraiture and abstracts, ink pointillism, and pencil work to barely being able to draw a straight line.  It is perhaps my darkest example of how my B-type approach to life was crushed by competition.

I started intensive drawing way back in the day:  8th grade to be exact.  And from then until my senior year of college I spent at least 10 hours a week huddled over a drafting table in the basement.  I never took to watercolor or oils, but I could work up a storm in graphite, ink, chalk and acrylic (I liked acrylic's faster drying time over oils).

I did all my work on artist board rather than canvas:  I thought the finer grain of the board allowed for more nuanced paint detail, and I could interchange it for paint and pencil work.  My work area was covered in kneadable erasers, tortillons, wood shavings, pen nibs, ink jars, and pencils ranging from fireplace charcoal consistency to glass-cutting hardness.  I saved magazine photos for inspiration and figure practice and always did my best work while listening to the "Heavy Metal" soundtrack.  This was the fun part:  I loved to solitude, the palpability of the tools, the creativity... and the discipline.

I displayed enough talent that I was enrolled in the advanced art program in high school, where I could further hone my craft one-on-one with teachers and from classmates.

What killed me, then, was the competition circuit.

My hobby turned from a solitary creative process to churning out production pieces for various art competitions.  I was creating art to win prizes, not to just "create art."  Unfortunately, I bought into it the process, and this young B-type who just wanted to paint got creamed in regional competitions by other kids who had been honing there craft since they first lifted a crayon.  It was always the same:  "good work, kid... but not good enough." 

I became jealous.  Instead of taking my lumps and staying focused on my work, I stared angrily at the kids who cranked out perfect work and brought home all the glory.  Although I thought I was on a professional team, I still nonetheless felt like the benchwarmer.

It came to a head when I took my portfolio to the Corcoran School of Art and Design, and I was so blown away by the other applicants' works that I simply packed up and left, tail between my legs.  I asked myself why I should waste my time pursuing an art degree when everyone's already better than me?

Indeed, that was the question of a 17-year old kid.  But on that day I put down my pencil, and by the next day--I kid you not--I could not draw a stick figure.  All my creativity was snuffed like a candle in a hurricane.

The loss of art, the one thing that I've ever thought I was truly good at, clouded my judgment for almost 20 years.  It made me fear trying new things.  It always brought back the same ghost:  why waste my time if someone's already better at it?

My only salves have been time, and - oddly enough - the military.

Time is easier to explain.  I'm older, hopefully wiser, and much mellower.  The concerns of a 35-year old pigeon aren't the same as a 17-year old squab.  Sure, it still hurts to think about it, but time is fogging the raw emotions behind it.

As for the military influence, in my experience you can blossom in the service merely by competing against yourself.  As long as I apply myself, and do the best I can with the tools and experiences I've been given, the rewards will come.  And more likely than not the reward won't be a medal, ribbon or a coin:  it'll be a project that'll anonymously benefit others, or a successful mission you share with your team.  In addition, as a leader I shouldn't be in the business of pursuing glory for myself; rather, I should bring rewards to my subordinates.  In our dog-eat-dog world, the teamwork and camaraderie of the military is a great cure for conceit.

So how does becoming an analog wizard come into play?

Time and experience finally met at a crucial fulcrum:  I want the creativity again.  I need the creativity again.  I so dearly miss my wizard-like desk, covered in inks and scrolls and bubbling potions.  I miss the solitude, the sound of quiet music offset by the brush of a lead on the board. 

Time and experience have made me realize it no longer matters how good others are, or how perfect their technique is, or how many baubles they've earned or berets the own.  All the matters are the images I want to capture, not whether someone else likes it or not.  And if I chose to enter a work in a show, it shouldn't be about winning, but about sharing my work with others.  Create for people, not for trophies.

It's a start:  I've got a new drafting table, a butcher's block, a range of leads and basic measuring tools.  Needless to say, when my eyes finally opened again the left side of my brain wanted to start with pencil work.  I've started doodling and sketching again on the block, practicing strokes and shades.  My next step is to comb a pile of magazines for a picture that strikes my fancy and then interpreting it in graphite (also need to get some artist boards, too).

My artist area may still be to clean and sterile right now, but as it was so many years ago the path to wizardry takes time.

I'm starting now.

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Comments

[Angel]

Hey buddy!...as u say: you can blossom in the service merely by competing against yourself.
Amen to that and good luck re-igniting the flame !!