Greetings once again, I hope all of you guys are doing well. I’ll elaborate on my experiences as an artist in this blog, since I stated that I would be typing up this blog, so let’s begin.
My interest in art began to manifest one day in high school, in 9th grade. I was deplorably bored in english class while viewing a couple pages in a magazine for time sakes. One particular page caught my sight, and my viewing pleasure evolved indulgently. As I marveled at the art pieces, my shifting paradigm began to develop a mental gymnastic known as, daydreaming. Daydreaming became my favorite activity, even competing against masturbation. In sequence, daydreaming would progress into drawing, and in due course conquer almost every sense of my perception. Finally after the revolution, drawing became the dictator of my drive and pragmatically every action was subjected to it’s essence. Every thought I conceived of was an amalgam of artistic insight and daily tasks. Recently, while completing domestic work, I became intrigued in a caricature that I had picked up from the floor. I began to scrutinize the figure and conceptualized a cartoon portrayal of a dragon. This figure below, is a conception of the dragon that manifested from the toy caricature. Interesting right? That’s the amalgam of domestic work and artistry. However, back in high-school, my awareness was infrequently available. Imagine applying artistic insight in every act you engage in. The conception of cartoon portrayals and graffiti pieces were overabundantly produced via daily tasks, that obscurity was casted over my prudence, and ultimately rendering my 9th, 10th, and 11th grade years a waste of academia. Every perceived idea or moment, was immediately commingle with artistry. The cravings of sketching override every stipulation I made with my counselor, which in due course, expelled me from traditional schooling and located me into a academic rehabilitation center where outbreaks of power hungry student primates fought for territories they didn’t even own. Academic objectives were futile. Teachers rarely taught any subject. Most teachers possessed the luxury of free time; however, two teachers out of ten, were constantly engaging in personal conversations over the phone with what I can only presume to be colleges or acquaintances. My unquenchable thirst for conceptual art began to diminished as I overviewed the domain of students with lackluster abilities. I felt that I had hit a low denominator in my life. My insufficient effectiveness to steer my life boat towards the motherland of success. What an abysmal, contemptible, disappointment I was to my name. Nonetheless, this center was the domain of ineffective students.
Very few students had purpose in that school. Very few were astute, intelligent free thinkers that were only attending school because of law abiding parents. Those were the individuals I was attracted to. As my artistic drive gradually diminished, my new camaraderie of friends, realized my potential and acted to challenge my skills. Sure enough, my skills proved to reiterate a lust of meticulous skills that would have me recognized by students in the academic rehabilitation center. Those were the days I felt a resonance of appreciation, constantly praise for a skill I loved. In contrast, the school’s methods for encouraging and inspiring were severe. In retrospect, there was this one moment where ( I’m not racist at all ) I meticulously drew a Hitler duck in pencil. It was compelling in it’s own respect, and many students where gunning to steal it. Of course, someone stole the bit of art and the culprit responsible never faced condemnation for his/her actions. However, it didn’t matter to me, the thought of someone stealing the art piece just sat well with me, since I knew it would be appreciated. Maybe appreciated for the wrong reason, but at least value the artwork in some sense, since art is perceived differently with every viewer. Fast-forward a couple years, and art has solidified it’s nature into my psyche. I try to sketch something emotionally relevant everyday, but other endeavors tend to squeeze into my schedule sometimes. I love to sketch, I love to approach the abstract, and visually construct it into intricate lines. One think is for sure. With the history, and everything I’ve been through with this skill. I never want to abandon my skill to draw.
I hope you guys enjoyed my story. Retrospect and analyze your history endeavor you pursued, and remember those moments of how you felt despondent, hopeless, or even anxious. Tell me a little about it in the comments if you can. And with that, I will leave you guys to yourself. I love you guys, be safe, and I’ll see you next time.