Am I like Arima in that little seems to reach my emotions? I often find it difficult to locate a tangible object or subject which interests me on an emotional level. If I select items for a still life for technical, skill-challenging considerations only, I am wont to pick many objects that I simply don't give a damn about (until I get bored, whereupon I get wackily dangerous ...*). When I seek things that draw me in, I cannot find them in the drawing room.
What does interest me? Sometimes it seems that only vast abstract ideals captivate my hidden passions - "beauty," "perception," "wisdom," "decay." How the hell do I create a "realistic fiction" with my work which can depict and communicate my emotional response ...? How do I do it with bottles and baskets, fabric scraps and mannequin limbs? Give me time, give me a camera, give me a Victorian house which has been chopped up into seven apartments. Give me urban decay, let me speak with Gao Xingjian.
I don't know where to begin ... sometimes I work through my anxiety and begin anyway, because what else can I do? What feels worse is that often, I do not know when to stop. When do I stop working on this section of the painting? When do I take a break? Is this a time where I should force myself on? Just how badly am I screwing up until somebody comes along and halts me?
Is this what I am supposed to be doing? I am told that I should go as far as I can, and that it is the teacher's responsibility to pull me back from the cliff's edge. But still ... it causes me uncertainty. We have so little time, and in my heart, I will never shake the feeling that so much rides on this. If I do not achieve what is necessary on this one little thing ... I worry that so much more will fall out of whack.
Nairohe unintentionally reminded me of this, the phoenix I made in Illustrator (the phoenix almost looks cooler in black and white only ...). I got a 90 on it ... I suppose that's very high, considering his grading scale. Still ... I feel like these "trivial" things are eating at me whenever I think about them, which is more often than I probably should.
When he asked if I had ever been comfortable with any medium, I acted like I was thinking, and then said "no." But that's a lie, I mouthed in my mind as my lips spoke otherwise. I have been comfortable with things in the past ... but sometimes being "comfortable" has proved in the end to be detrimental.
Why couldn't I answer him truthfully? I don't know. I am thwarting already limited interactions due to my evasive untruths in regards to anything I consider "personal." A tightness appears in my chest as I wish to run - it is hard enough to deal with these issues on my own, let alone with comparative strangers.
Though it is a negative, self-preserving habit, I don't think its existence makes me a bad person. Why ... because that's simply the way it is. I am not a bad person. It is in my nature to be cruel, selfish, and reclusive ... but "bad," "evil" ... this is not truly a part of me.
I have said it more than once ... everything can be interpreted negatively. But can everything be interpreted positively? Certainly, it must be so. It seems to take much more effort, however .. it requires a suspension of disbelief which many (myself included) find hard to give. Part of me says that it also needs the effort "to make it seem believable," but that is the side of me which seeks approval from others.
All these years ... and I still can't stop comparing myself to others. Though I have matured and mellowed out somewhat in terms of "how I go about it," I have yet to shake the habit.
*Tools become dinosaurs, and I seriously contemplate doing paintings of Miss Piggy's bodyless head enshrined in a brown pot.