“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
T. S. Eliot
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
T. S. Eliot
Breking News: Justine Scares New Students!
Justine Mara Andersen (putting on her very best “badass” teacher face and outfit) tonight at the SAW meet and greet terrified students before they’d even taken a class from her. School administration refused to comment. Actually, they hadn’t refused, but had already gone to bed.
“She threw this BIG intense hardcover anatomy book on the table, and about scared the crap out of us!” said one former student. It has been alleged that the sound of the book hitting the table startled the students, causing hearing damage in at least one student, who had just come in from rehearsals with his band “Pissing Agony.” He stated that “The ringing in my ears just wouldn’t stop.” Though it has since been verified that the student was found to have had a small bit of cotton in his ear from an earache he’d had almost two years ago. Apparently the ringing was caused when the vibration of the book hitting the table had dislodged the waxy obstruction. He now considers the event a minor miracle. As it turns out, he wasn’t a SAW student at all, but a passerby who had wanted to see where all the noise was coming from.
Witnesses said her introductory lecture to her coming classes invovled not only cussing (though far less than Kurt Wolfgang’s), but dramatic shows of ego and bravado unparalleled in the anals of SAW.
Justine, who spoke with us from “The Angry Room” in her home in the swamps had this to say: “Trust me.”
It is rumored that a few students who had already taken Justine’s classes are seriously considering repeating and taking the class a second time–possibly unprecedented in the history of SAW. It has also come to our attention that former night students are also signing up for Justine’s year-long class–also allegedly unprecedented. Again, when interviewed, Justine grinned a cockeyed grin and said: “Trust me.” While it had not been reported to administration, another of the new students stopped Justine after her controversial class introduction. When contacted, she said she told Justine: “I’m really looking forward to being in your class, I really need someone to kick my ass into gear.” When asked to comment on this, Justine rolled her eyes, put her head in her hands and sighed: “Trust me.” A student from India (also witness to this performance) said that he really enjoyed Justine’s performance, and laughed: “who throws a book on a table like that!” He added that he understood the comic duality of her performance. We’re not sure what that meant, but Justine claims to have understood the comment quite clearly, and sighed, “Jai Sri Krishna.”
Justine said, “Look, there’s a Vaudeville to this, I was performing in the field of opposites, and besides, who wants a timid teacher? I’m there not only to teach, but to engage. I teach through engaging, through entertaining. So I go a little over the top… it’s the arts! It’s the artist in me making my intro to my classes a work of performance art in and of itself. Art isn’t just what I put on paper, it’s how I live each moment. Why not be over the top? Hell, it’s comics, aren’t we supposed to be over the top, edgy, maybe even dangerous?” She shook her head, “Eh… look, I have students returning, students stating how much I taught them in a very short time, and one student telling me she needs her ass kicked into gear. Some people need to experience my approach. Trust me, just trust me, my methods work. Besides, once they come into my class and everything gets going, they’ll not only learn, but have fun. Look, I’m not going to tone it down for anyone, not because I refuse to, but because I don’t have to, I have to engage them, and I will. I’ve never had a student walk out of a class afraid of me, never. Trust me, I came on a bit strong, but it was just to reorient them. I’ve had students come in with the wrong idea about what I expect, I really need to break it down a little so they know what to expect in my classes. My class is a little more about sacrificing self expression and ego to tradition and discipline, and that’s tough for some people to do, especially if they hadn’t seen it coming. Now they see it coming and they can not only embrace it, but rise to it. I am challenging my students, and watching so many of them rise to the challenge has been so gratifying.”
When asked for comment Kurt Wolfgang, spilling his drink, had this to say: “Right on Justine!” When asked to comment a former student of Justine’s just laughed as she recalled the extremes of Justine’s controversial introduction.
“Just come to my class. Ultimately I take care of my students, that’s the point. I’m there to challenge them, push them out of their comfort zones… that’s where the growth is, but I only do this because I want the best for them, and most of the time I don’t think the culture demands the best of us, we’re all too afraid to anymore. We’re getting short-shifted by our own culture. I guess I’m a little old fashioned.” When asked if she had any regrets, she had only this to say: “Yeah, I regret that the anatomy book I threw wasn’t bigger and heavier and that a cloud of dust didn’t erupt from it when I threw it on the table, I think then everyone would have seen how cartoonishly funny it was. Can I say ‘cartoonishly?’ is that offensive? Edit that out.”
“Listen, this should be a vibrant and surprising experience, it shouldn’t be safe, it should even be a little dangerous.” She then winked and added, “Trust me, just trust me, it’s not only going to be a great year, but a fucking great ride! We don’t just teach at SAW, we give you an experience. Be up to it, be mindful of it, and enjoy the ride, I will, I always do.” We asked her one final question: “What am I doing tonight?” she said as she began to walk away, “Not much, go home, have a popsicle and watch Super Chicken cartoons I guess. Oh… and then stay awake all night worrying about stuff that’ll never happen.”
More power to ya Justine!
Someone I knew killed himself today. I didn’t know him all that well, but he was part of our circle at SAW. Mostly I’m worried about friends of mine who were very close to him. Just the same, it triggered something in me. See… I’ve witnessed a suicide first hand. It was shocking and caused me to have a breakdown, and not even 6 months later my best friend from childhood (who I had been unfortunately estranged from) threw himself off the Y bridge in Akron. The self same bridge I drove over on 3 separate occasions when I was at my lowest, wondering if I could find it in me to follow my old friend over the edge. Fortunately, the third time across that bridge I realized once and for all that I didn’t have that in me. In fact I pretty much knew then that I didn’t have a truly crazy act of any kind in me, just a lot of questions. Unfortunately I realized this after 24 hours in an institution. Oh, I had the depression, the fear, the self doubt, but not the courage or depth of madness to take that final leap.
On this day I was mostly worried about a friend of mine who was a lot closer (I mean an awful lot closer, profoundly closer) to the man who killed himself than I was… I barely knew him, but he had been part of my life since my first days in Gainesville. All the same, I wasn’t hurting for myself, but for my friends who were closer.
I never know what to say when it comes to this sort of thing, so I sent a string of emails to the person I was most worried about as I thought all this through. I opened up too much, again, I think this incident triggered a response in me from prior, far greater, traumas. Here is what I wrote:
“There’s a funny thing that happens after this… people always say “He should have reached out to the people who loved him,” and things like that. Problem is, one learns pretty quickly when one is in such a state that the last thing people want is to be around that, or to hear about that. And even if they are available, they don’t get it at all, and always say the wrong things. And the person in that state soon learns that they don’t want to burden others with it. So they withdraw and suffer alone. It can so easily spiral out of control. The fight can be fatiguing, but a person can’t let up, never for a minute.
The bottom line is, we all need to realize that mental and emotional illnesses are as valid as physical ailments, they aren’t just petty annoyances, but very real sicknesses that can be utterly debilitating. People will stay at a person’s side if they have cancer, but if they have emotional or mental issues… well, they tend to keep a healthy distance.
It’s a complicated mess, no one is to blame, and I think people have a lot of mixed feelings about dealing with another person’s depression or issues.
Sorry… I always ponder this after something like this happens, I’ve just never put it into words. Not even sure if these are the right words or thoughts… but they’re out now.”
And the follow up:
“Hope that wasn’t too much. But I’ve really do end up wondering about this after the fact… every time. Truth is, it’s all really too much for us to make sense of no matter how much we think about this stuff.”
“Having witnessed a suicide… this stuff perplexes me pretty deeply.
I was worried about you. Didn’t think you needed one more blow.”
And the final:
“On the other hand… I had once taken it upon myself to help my friend Meghan out when she hit rock bottom with depression. I lined up a therapist, took care of her… but soon learned she wasn’t willing to take care of herself, make appointments or take meds. So… what did I do? I kept a distance. Why did I keep a distance? Because I had witnessed the same patterns with my friend Phil… then years after Meghan, again with my friend Ryan (in Korea) who also had to be cut loose.
It’s a bitch.
None of the last few emails were meant to be negative… just sorting through unresolved thoughts.
I do hope you are taking this with as much a stoic spirit as your emails suggest. If not, call me, I’ve been around this bend from all sides.”
I was floundering in those emails, only hitting upon parts of the truth. There are people you or I or anyone could reach out to… the problem is… one often doesn’t know who they are. One often reaches out to the wrong people, which can simply make things worse. And having done that, one might learn not to reach out… thereby missing the right people to reach out to.
But, see, none of that really got to the heart of the matter, not at least so far as how this had hit me on a personal level–which is what this blog is all about.
The guy who killed himself always seemed so happy, so sociable, so kind, likable, calm and together. Every time I met him I felt humbled by his gentle spirit and easy humor. I always felt rather like here was a guy who really had it together, who had made the transition to adulthood with so much more grace than I had. To be perfectly honest, I felt childish, immature and emotional… like I just didn’t measure up. I sometimes shame myself for how poorly I seem to have adapted to adult life, to this culture, and to my place in it. I often feel totally lost. But not this cat, no man, he had it together… and people really really liked him.
Then I found out that he was an alcoholic.
WHAT! He was an alcoholic! No way! After being saddened by it, I thought: “Not that guy, he had it so together.”
Then I found out that after he moved away things were going badly, and if I’m remembering correctly there was even a really sad DUI incident.
And now I learn he has killed himself.
As the evening played out, I realized a number of things… one of which is that we just don’t know. We just don’t know the realities of the lives of the people we might compare ourselves to, or diminish ourselves before. Sometimes the people and the lives that we measure ourselves against, quite frankly, don’t measure up to our measurements. Things can be going on that we just can’t see, and we can’t imagine the pain other people might be in. And sometimes we have to accept that maybe we aren’t doing all that badly in life after all.
Be careful out there. Perhaps we do measure up, perhaps we are simply measuring other people (and ourselves) very inaccurately, or more urgently, we (or I) need to stop taking such measurements at all! We just don’t know, we just don’t know, but I know this… as it turns out, I’m not all that lost after all. And I’m determined to remember this lesson for as long as I live.
And I hate that I had to learn this lesson under these circumstances, but that’s the thing with lessons, they come when they need to come, and that, my friends, is that.
Go see “Tomorrowland,” everyone should, this culture needs this movie and more movies like it very very badly. It is in every possible way the exact opposite of Mad Max… and we really do need to rethink how we consider our future.
I think many of us spend our lives seeking one very important and elusive experience. Sadly, I expect many never quite find it. That experience we all seek, one which I think is sadly missing in our scattered BIG world culture, is that of feeling and knowing that we are needed. Certainly in tribal and village culture the experience of being needed was quite common, but in the capitalist rat race I think Americans have accepted that not only are they not needed, but they are easily and readily replaceable. Layoffs, firings, downsizing, outsourcing, being “over qualified” and made obsolete, and the all around feeling of being a dime-a-dozen is perhaps the biggest psychological and emotional scar our culture drives into us.
I thought I was going to find myself needed in my career. I thought if I just got good enough, or found something that had never been said the same way, that the world would realize they needed my art, my talents. Hell, even DC Comics realized after a while that they didn’t need me, as did WOTC and every other client I ever had, and if my clients found me replaceable, well, I certainly knew the world didn’t really need me either. I thought my spouse needed me, but as it turned out… a divorce later, that just wasn’t so. Time and again I have had to come to grips with just how unessential I really was. Knowing you are imminently replaceable is essentially the same as feeling useless. I mean, think about it, if a company is willing to replace a person with an intern or is willing to outsource one’s job to India, just how important or needed can one feel? To be even more specific, in a world where anyone and everyone can get some attention on the internet for their cartoons, or for their work on Deviant Art… it seems to me that artists are every bit as replaceable as someone who lost their job to outsourcing. Artists are a dime a dozen.
Oh, sure, companies will pat us on the back and tell us we are essential, but they will lay us off as soon as we become unprofitable or inconvenient, or God forbid… the moment we have ideas of our own. It takes a while, sometimes decades, but people can be beaten down to a pulp and made to feel utterly useless in today’s economy. Me, for the entirety of my life I have sought situations where I felt needed or essential, where I felt truly irreplaceable and perhaps even appreciated… dare I say… loved! I travelled the world and tried many things, often feeling essential and needed, only to discover that I was indeed anything but essential. One minute people are singing your praises, the next moment they’re fixated on the shiny new thing, and completely bored with you.
Certainly computers contributed to many of us feeling as though we were not only not needed, but obsolete. Yes, there are many ways to feel unnecessary. I traveled from one experience to another, and I can tell you the precise moment I would become bored or disenchanted with a job or situation, and that moment was when I realized not only that I could be replaced, but that I could be quickly and easily replaced, the moment I realized I was not really needed.
But that has all changed.
I have been suffering a lot of intense anxiety lately, and admittedly, a lot of depression, and the only thing that has pulled me through was knowing that I am finally, for the first time in a very long life, in a situation where I am not only needed, but irreplaceable. I am in a situation where I have proven that I am not only necessary for the basic functioning of SAW (The Sequential Artists Workshop, where I work), but every single one of my skills, be they hard or soft, have been essential to the forward motion of our school. Beyond all that, I have become essential not only in the work-life of my “boss,” but in his home life as well, as I have become something of an on-call nanny, and that is only because I have a one of a kind bond with Tom and Leela’s daughter. They need me, but more importantly, little Molly Rose needs me. So long as she needs me, life has purpose, and I have a responsibility to take care of myself and keep living.
Today, while working to renovate the new school, I realized that Tom has walked away from the renovation and has simply trusted me with every aspect of it to date. Beyond the core expectations of my job, to teach comics and illustration to our students, the skills I have are essential to SAW’s functioning and moving forward. I realized after putting in another day of renovation, that I am the one most qualified to do that work, I am the one they need. This, of course, was the very day after I was at Tom and Leela’s babysitting and putting their lovely daughter Molly Rose to bed.
This feeling of being needed, of being appreciated has far outgrown our professional lives, here at SAW, and I can say without fear of presumption, that we have become family, we have become essential to one another. I hope in my heart that when Tom speaks about SAW, he says, “I couldn’t do it without Justine,” and I’m pretty darn sure he feels that way, or at the very least, that he can’t imagine SAW without me. I can’t imagine SAW without me, and I dread imagining me without SAW.
I realize that at a specialty school like SAW, that no one else is more qualified to teach what I teach, and that if they were, we all have accepted that no one else would do it with as much passion and personality as I do. In other words, not only am I the perfect fit for the needs of the school, but the school is a perfect fit for my needs. I can be my genuine self there, without fear of censure. I can experiment, be daring, and even adventurous in my approach. I can be honest and bold, and never fear being “let go” because I made someone nervous. In order for teaching to be vigorous and engaging, the teacher must be allowed, encouraged, free, and capable of walking a tightrope… and without a net. The only net is that Tom understands that if I’m up on a tightrope doing flips and acrobatics… sometimes I’m going to fall, and fall hard. This would, of course, never be allowed at a university. I wouldn’t last ten minutes in any other academic situation, hell, most universities wouldn’t even allow me to work barefoot, let alone say and do the things I say and do.
I have tried not only to teach my students how to draw, but how to see, and how to survive in the brutal world of comics and art. I have tried to teach my students about life and living, about letting go and finding themselves beyond the strange taboos and limitations of our culture. I have taken my students kayaking, have taught them to be hedonistic, have taught them to balance indulgence and discipline, daring and good sense. I have shown them the reality of my life, and hoped that through that they might find their own reality, a reality beyond the one we are all trained to accept. I have shared my mistakes with my students, they have seen me warts and all. This is dangerous, anarchic, and not only did I need an environment that would allow me to tread such treacherous paths, I have found a school that needs someone who will do that.
I have found a home, acceptance, and a place where I am needed, a place where I am appreciated.
Keep seeking, keep seeking, it may take a terribly long time, but somewhere out there… theres is a place and there are people that need you, and you’ll know that place and those people when you find them. Don’t despair, but do keep moving, and don’t accept anything less than truly being needed, because nothing else is good enough, trust me.
Today, May 5th 2015, Molly Rose Corman Hart said my name for the first time!
I was putting her to bed, which I have been doing once a week, and it’s the most delightful night of the week for me. Today, when Tom brought her home on his bike, I was told that Molly had been being a little cranky, or was simply having on off day, but when she saw me she gave me the big smile. I took off her helmet and got her out of her seat, and she let me know that she wanted to play outside. I loved watching her develop to where she could communicate her wants. Before going out we did our usual thing, I changed her diaper (and having never changed one before Molly came along, I can’t believe that I love doing it), dressed her, and took her out to play in the water. We like to set up on a towel under the orange tree (I love Florida living), a bucket of water, some water toys, three new “beeh-tuh” (that’s “big truck” for those of you who don’t speak Molly as fluently as I do) that I had just bought her, and she played, transferring water from bucket to toys, and sometimes dumping it on me or herself. And she was a little off, not quite so happy as normal, occasionally mildly cranky, but content and fully engaged. She’s great that way, even at her worst she is capable of engaging in whatever it is she’s doing without having fit after fit, and with precious little fussiness. She soon let me know that she wanted an orange off the tree, so Tom and I got one down. I peeled it half way for her so she could suck out the juice and chew on the pulp. It’s adorable watching her smash that delicious fresh orange into her chubby little face, juice rolling down her arms.
I had made the mistake of thinking it would be OK for me to take a break while she was eating, but it wasn’t. Just because she was taking a lunch break didn’t mean there wasn’t work to be done. She pointed to the trucks and water, guiding the play and insisting that that water be moved even though she was eating. Every time I tried to stop and talk to Tom, Molly, in full manager mode, would point to the trucks and water and demand that the work was still getting done.
She was fussy about coming in, so I did what I usually do, I make the moment of going in or going home all part of the fun and adventure by picking her up, running around a little, laughing and getting her to forget that she didn’t want to go in. One thing I’ve learned is that if she’s at the park and I need to get her home, saying, “I’m sorry sweetheart, it’s time to go home” doesn’t work, she knows what is about to happen is an end to the fun. The simplest solution is to make sure that getting there and going home is all part of the fun and adventure.
Leela and I bathed her, and Molly flashed me several of her good old smiles, the big one, and I could see that her mild crankiness was melting away. She doesn’t like being held or hugged a lot (at least not by me), she tends to want to be on the go, and when I hold her, she likes to be facing out so she can engage with the world and people around her, but sometimes after I change her she will let me hold her tight to me. She’s warm and as grounding and full of peace as the Buddha, and she feels delightful on those occasions when she lets you hold her against your breast. By dinner the old Molly smile and brightness was back, and she entertained me with her funny eating routine. I loved her just as much when she was frowny, but I was really happy to see that I was able to get her back to her bubbly self.
Getting her to bed was not easy, once she had perked up and gotten happy, she wanted to play. I gently coaxed her into sitting on my lap so I could give her her bottle and read to her. One of her favorite books is “Madeline,” and she has learned to say it, “Malalie.” I thought if she could say that, she could say my name, so I coaxed her, “Can you say Justine?”
“Gah-keen” she said. My heart soared, it was the first time she had ever said my name. Just to make sure I heard right, I got her to say it again, and she said it just the same.
It was a moment and a feeling I will never forget, the first time Molly Rose said my name… after all, I had been anticipating it since the first time I held her, as a baby, in my arms.
Love you, Molly Rose, my very best friend in Gainesville (apart, perhaps, from your dad).
So, how is it done? How does one balance the heat of art-making, the heady personality of the artist, the neurosis inherent in the heart of the artist… and yet behave like a cool calm professional?
OK… here’s the rub… I have no fucking idea. I’ve been at this for the majority of my adult life, and I still have no idea how to be the dedicated true believer I am as an artist, and yet how to balance that with being a pro at meetings, coping with senseless intrusions from clients, and then ultimately dealing with disappointment when the final results are damaged by incompetency at the printers, or whoever.
Being an artist can be soul crushing every step of the way, from the struggle to learn and ultimately master your craft, to the uncertainties involved in “making it,” to dealing with the bullshit of having “made it.” Worse yet, however much I have “made it” in the eyes of others… the sad truth is (psst… don’t tell my students) most of us never make it, certainly nearly all of us feel like that whole “I’ve finally made it” stage is still eluding us. Shit happens, your favorite art director gets laid off, entire industries can go under, books and magazines can be cancelled mid-project. It’s a bitch.
No, really, it’s a bitch!
And what is “making it” anyway? I mean, lots of shitty artists make it. It didn’t matter how many BIG companies I worked for, for me “making it” often depended even more on more personal criteria. How in the hell could I ever consider myself as having “made it” with artists like Hal Foster, Jeff Jones and Wally Wood having set the bar so high? There is “making it” in the business and publishing sense, then there’s “making it” in your own eyes, which also includes the whole concept of “making it” in comparison to the Masters. This whole “making it” bit is elusive to say the least.
So, take all that, all that uncertainty, all that self doubt, and add the simple truth that more often than not, the sorts of minds that make art and make good artists also make neurotics. For me, the real catch is that the very forces, emotional and psychological, that pushed me on and kept me striving to greater heights are the very emotions and passions that often seem to undo me as a professional. I could never have learned to draw the way I do if I wasn’t so obsessive, so in need of approbation. I often think I create work to boost my self-esteem, to prove to a world that has bullied me and banged the hell out of my self worth, that I am worthwhile, that I can contribute something, that I am exceptional. Sometimes I think I make work to ease the loneliness, I create work to be loved. Pathetic? Perhaps, but I don’t think it’s all that unusual. Honestly, I think I’m still in the “look what I can do” phase as an artist.
This is all far more complicated by a number of factors, for one, we live in a culture that demands that people who give more, do more, and excel, also learn to smile good naturedly and accept that incompetent boobs and morons will screw up their work at some point, either through heavy handed editing and art directing of incompetent printing. As Jeffrey Catherine Jones once told me, when she and Wrightson and Kaluta and the rest of them got together they would joke that their work always came back from the printer smeared with bananas. If you don’t get that, let me explain… basically artists learn quickly that once our work is out of our hands it goes into the hands of the baboons at the printers. This, group, is why it is so important to leave borders around your work so the artwork (image area) is not manhandled. This is why I get so exasperated when my students draw all the way to the edge of their papers. Here’s what I’m telling you, that art teacher in school you loved so much, you know, the one that told you to draw all the way to the edge of the paper… didn’t know his (or her) ass from a hole in the ground. That border around your work is where the coffee spills, fingerprints and abuse goes.
Let’s just lay out my latest mistake… or perfectly justifiable frustration… depending on whose side your on here. It’s just about April now, and before Christmas I started working on a major project, taking about 80% of the project on myself (regarding the illustration chores only). This project was 4 full pages of comic strips, each one drawn in the style of a classic Master of the form. I had to learn to draw like Bill Watterson in one strip, then Hal Foster in another; Charles Schulz in one strip and Windsor McKay in another. This work was created with dedication, delight, and the utmost precision. When copying the style of a master the difference between success and failure can be measured in millimeters. You know what I’m talking about, we all know when a drawing of Charlie Brown was done by Schulz, and when it was done by a lesser artist. And let me tell you, sometimes the differences are so subtle as to be maddening… millimeters. Bend a shape by a couple millimeters… and suddenly it looks like the same boob who drew those pissing Calvins we all see on the back of Ford and Chevy trucks drew that Charlie Brown as well. Copying the style of a master requires not only an understanding of their style, but undoubtedly years of mastering drawing yourself, years of observation, years of noticing the minutia, years of discerning patterns and proportions that are invisible to the eye of the average viewer, or indeed most artists. What I really was not ready for was realizing that in order to finish this latest project I had to entirely relearn whole languages of line with each artist. The lines that Chester Gould used might look a little like the lines that Walt Kelly used… but they arent’ not at all. In other words, being a good inker isn’t good enough, you have to be a discerning inker that deals with lines that are perfect down to millimeters. I likened it to code breaking. Each artist had a code of line rather than language. This project I have worked on has been a delight, a torture, rewarding, maddening, embarrassing and worthy of great pride. In other words, a world of conflict.
I am a conflicted person, a complicated person, a person with high emotions and higher standards. The problem is, I hold the world to my standards, and while once upon a time we expected people to master things, to reach higher and set higher standards, we now, instead, expect the person with high standards to just relax and let the baboons drag their work down… and we’re supposed to smile about it, too.
So, I did my job, I did all I could and gave all I had… and in the end, what did I get… my work came back with bananas (and I swear I smelled a little fesces) smeared all over it. Someone at the printer decided that the margins were too wide (or something), so naturally, the solution someone at the printer came up with was to set down the banana, stop scratching himself, and stretch my work out to better fill out the page.
Remember what I said about millimeters? Blown, blown to hell. The worst part was having to listen to everyone tell me “it’s alright… no one will notice… it was only stretched a little.”
“Only stretched a little.” There’s no such thing as “only stretched a little,” it’s either stretched or it ain’t. This is one of those black and white right or wrong things. Not only did I have to witness the distortion of my work (to the tune of 34,000 printed copies), but I had to listen to person after person tell me that the work looked fine distorted… in other words, that I was wrong and my emotions invalid. It seems that everyone is an expert, everyone but me knew how my art should look. I, evidently, am the one person who is not qualified to decide whether or not my work looks good stretched and distorted. I guess everyone else knows a lot more about how my work should be presented than I do. In other words, not only did I have to look at my work horribly disfigured, I had to listen to everyone tell me there was nothing wrong with it that way, and that I was just being silly for being upset about it.
Here’s where we really get pushed and pulled. Clients expect us to be passionate and innovative, meticulous and wholly engaged in the work, in other words they expect us to be artists through and through… until we have to sit down in the board room. Admittedly, I challenge this, I go to all my meeting barefoot, and usually in short shorts, not to make a point, but because I am not playing their game. If I had wanted to play their game and wear business casual clothes, I would have played their game. I chose to be an artist because I have no interest in wearing a ladies pants suit. Now, here’s where we really get put to the test, the client will change this, change that, demand perfection, then drop illos, make senseless changes, and be OK with it when the printer fucks it all up. Then, they expect us, the artists, to be OK with that, to be cool, calm and professional. In other words, that passionate engaged and innovative person that drew the work and conceived of the project, the very artist they relied on to be creative and “artistic,” they now expect to behave like a banker. It’s an impossible situation to be in. And why is it that everything has to be “professional” anyway? Why are we so afraid of emotions? Why can’t honesty and emotions play a part in these business transactions? They certainly liked it when honesty and emotions played a part in the art making! We, as artists, are expected to balance ourselves on a scale that is impossibly tipped out of our favor.
So here’s where it all comes together, remember what I said about artits being passionate, neurotic, emotional, obsessive… well, when I knew my work had come back from the printers stretched, that didn’t sit well with me. When I heard about it I began to vibrate, to fucking vibrate with emotion. It was uncontrollable. Imagine shaking a bottle of Pepsi (or Coke… I don’t care which you prefer, but no Shasta), then expecting that emotional soda wouldn’t blow out and spray everywhere. The point is, I’m full of fizziness, that’s what makes me go… that’s what makes me so much fun to drink… but shake me up and what do you think is going to happen? All that fizziness and emotion we all admire and enjoy is suddenly spraying out all over someone’s face.
Unfortunately, sometimes it sprays all over the client’s face.
That’s the unprofessional part, so I’m told. Personally, I think it’s unprofessional that clients don’t treat artists like artists and don’t let artist be artists.
If I’ve learned anything from my life as an illustrator, right up to this particular project, the take home lesson would be: expect more from yourself and less from the culture. In other words, an artist needs to strive to master the difficult stuff, they need to do their homework even though the culture doesn’t know the difference between Hal Foster and Lynda Barry. And even if you can draw like Foster (and no one does), the printers and publishers will screw it up anyway. No, there isn’t much reward for expecting more from yourself… but you should do it anyway, at least that’s what I tell my students.
Sometimes I hope most of my students ignore me, it will certainly make their lives a lot easier, ’cause no one out there can see the difference. After all, everything’s beautiful no matter how half-assed or poorly conceived or poorly printed it is… right?