[Just in case you are wondering what I am contemplating while drawing today.]
I can imagine a couple of poor career choices: a chimney sweeper suffering from acrophobia, a chef with taste blub dysfunction, a micro-surgeon without depth perception, and well yeah, a ferociously introverted artist in today’s world made from and for extroverts.
If earning some money with art you created yourself makes you an artist, by all means I am one. I didn’t just sell more pictures than van Gogh did in his lifetime (what’s not that hard because he sold only two), every quarter of a year I write an invoice demanding my share of the sales of the Aviva Buddy Bear. I should mention that it is not more than a trickle worth less than the pocket money a teenager needs in a week, but since four years now it is a constant trickle.
Plus, I am apparently very convinced of this artist thing. Just a fortnight ago, it wasn’t long after I moved back from Israel, I had a dream. In this dream I screamed at myself: “But I AM AN ARTIST, I don’t want another job.” What is there left to respond to that? Case closed.
Taking my personality into consideration – no way that works. But when I start arguing with my sub-conscience people might accidentally discover how crazy I really am. It’s a struggle, but I rather try to see my personality issues as a handicap and work around them. One strategy: I am on Twitter.
I have something like 4,500 tweets – posted over the course of what, two years? It maybe sounds like a lot, but mostly I stay in the safe waters of slightly funny comments on real life friends’ remarks. Seldom I leave my comfort zone, aka sending out tweets to people I don’t know in a way to arouse interest. Even more seldom I do so in order to arouse interest in me or something of me. I think the instances I can count on one hand.
One of these instances happened last night. After a day working up my courage and pondering exactly what to say I typed with shivering fingers a note. 140 characters addressed at David Boreanaz, who had just joint Twitter two days ago, pointing him to the picture I painted of him. Ten more minutes until I hit ‘Enter’ in which I was to erase the tweet about a hundred times. Afterwards I left Twitter. I felt sick to the stomach. And though it was in the middle of the night for me I watched another movie and played a couple of more games before I even tried to go to sleep. I never logged back in to Twitter that night as I felt completely embarrassed to show off with something I consider part of the best art I’ve ever done in my life.
This morning when I woke up I relived the whole episode again. Squirrely and slightly sick again I opened my computer and checked the internet. And – nothing had happened. Three clicks on the post with the picture, no comment, no signs my tweet was even seen by the recipient or anyone else in this world. I am not sure if I feel more relief or more frustration.
[Sometimes it sucks being me.]