Serendipitous...
Do it. Not to show the world, but if only for the unabashed feeling of freedom that it gives you.
I started stockpiling cheap art supplies. Everything from crayons to fingernail polish. I kept them in a clear, heavy plastic briefcase. I'd carry it to the playground and occupy myself while my daughter played games with her friends. Sometimes her friends would want to come and join me. Often I would share my supplies and ask them to have a seat at the picnic table. They seemed fascinated by my work but I always thought they had the edge having not been too intimidated with the notion that only the Michelangelo's and Rembrandt's were "real artists". Truth was I wasn't intimidated either, same as my disposition when my band director in high school ridiculed me for being into "Black Ant" (a greatly confused and very unhip extrapolation of Black Flag and Adam Ant?!?!) and not pursuing a passion for "real musicians" like Glen Miller, and Blood, Sweat and Tears. Why was playing root V chords with a distorted guitar any less of a valid ecstatic release (strictly in Jungian terms) than mapping out sappy brass ballads meant to conjure mothball scented leanings towards The Good Old Days? Songs like "You've Made Me So Very Happy" and "Chattanooga Choo Choo" were not things I sang to myself as I walked from the bus back to the house after a day at school, that's for sure.
Back to the picnic table, I genuinely started to embrace that uninformed sort of innocence my daughter and her classmates had; that perhaps doing creative work was actually more of an act than a means to an end, as opposed to some sort of Olympic event where they give you gold medals. Or gold records. This newfound sentiment flew in the face of every opportunistic route I had taken in previous years as a musician trying to achieve success as I had foolishly mutated and redefined it. Somewhere I lost that innocence from the gospel of punk rock: Johnny Ramone. John Lydon. Mark Mothersbaugh. Joe Strummer. Somewhere it all began to matter and entirely too much. That if you weren't going to write, record, or perform something that was somehow going to be a brick to stand on towards some sort of careerist concept of elevation, then it was a waste of time. Talk about petting the cat's fur backwards! In addition, I felt like a dead man after the divorce in the following months. Time didn't matter anymore. I was a ghost stuck in my host.
One day I took the briefcase with me to work and piddled manically in the break room while some watched in various states of amusement, amazement, disdain, and jealousy. It never ceases to surprise me what trips people drop on you based on their own insecurities; like "I could never do that..." to "You suck..." (if only for having the courage to try?) Nonetheless one of them drew my name in the company Secret Santa grab bag. If for no reason other than fate I was given brushes of all sizes and shapes, a few small canvases, a couple of tubes of acrylic paint, and some sincere well wishes that altered the course of my life forever and perhaps enhanced it to a greater level than I'd ever known.
To paraphrase William Burroughs, these days my concern is really not who may or may not like what I do but more so what kind of a position are they in to stop me? When the Austin, TX punk band The Big Boys campaigned for people to start their own band, many of my friends and I had taken notice and did just that. I encourage anyone anywhere to go to your local art store, drop what you might spend on a night out to dinner, gather a plethora of supplies, go home, SHUT OFF YOUR TV AND PHONE, crank up some music, and paint like no one will ever see it. You'll thank me later. I promise!
