31 Drawing Challenge

I'm trying my luck at a 31 day drawing challenge, to see if I can really keep up my goal of "drawing every day." It's sad that I have to make that a goal... especially because I consider myself an artist but blah, whatever. I'm going to try and post the drawings I do up here, but we'll see if that actually happens, not because I haven't done the drawings but because I'm so damned ashamed of them. The first day challenge was "draw yourself" and goddamn it was awful. I think I either draw myself waaaaay too inaccurately buxom or waaaay too ugly.

So you're gettin' nothing, folks!

Talk Fans the Flame

Paterson, Book Three, The Library, Part II

Fire burns; that is the first law.
When a wind fans it the flames

are carried abroad. Talk
fans the flames. They have

manoeuvred it so that to write
is a fire and not only of the blood.

The writing is nothing, the being
in a position to write (that;s

where they get you) is nine tenths
of the difficulty: seduction

or strong arm stuff. The writing
should be a relief,

relief from the conditions
which as we advance become--a fire,

a destroying fire. For the writing
is also an attack and means must be

found to scotch it--at the root
if possible. So that

to write, nine tenths of the problem
is to live. They see

to it, not by intellection but
by sub-intellection (to want to be

blind as a pretext for
saying, We're so proud of you!

A wonderful gift! How do
you find time for it in

your busy life? It must be a great
thing to have such a pastime.

But you were always a strange
boy. How's your mother?)

--the cyclonic fury, the fire,
the leaden flood and finally
the cost--

Your father was such a nice man.
I remember him well .

Or, Geeze, Doc, I guess it's all right
but what the hell does it mean?

--William Carlos Williams

Infintesimal Things.

You know, it's really the little things that can make or it break it for you.

This past week I've been stressed myself out needlessly (but hey, it's what I do!) over my independent study video project; I'm creating a visual interpretation of Verse I of East Coker by T.S. Eliot. Despite the fact that it's nearly impossible to render a poem visually, seeing as the words of the poem itself are a beautiful and complete mish-mash of phonetics, imagery and pacing, I've gone ahead and am attempting the impossible. Hoo-yeah, I know I've picked probably the most stressful thing I could have taken on, but I'm really trying to push myself hard.

Prof. Castro has been trying to get me to realize my potential, and has been talking about me pushing myself harder and working further in expanding my artistic pursuits. I feel like he's been telling me this for the past year--and either I've been stupid or deaf (or both) and have yet to completely listen to him. I think I've also taken on this behemoth because of the fiasco of my art endeavors last year, specially that in my Creative Process class, in which I came upon a tar-pit in my artistic path and promptly belly-flopped in. Earlier this summer I came upon another tar pit, and this time I tripped and awkwardly cannonballed in. I've never really thought of myself as a perfectionist, but a few of my friends have been telling me I've been too hard on myself, expected unrealistic results and it's been causing my anguish.

I'm starting to think they are probably right.

I've never been okay with my own limitations, I want to be the best in everything all the time...how unrealistic and juvenile of me! It's okay for me to have limitations, and it's okay for me to work hard at trying to best them. To be honest, I think I am a perfectionist with a lazy streak, I whine and whine and whine about how much I hate the things I create, but hell, I don't produce all that much, and it's hard to bat a 300 when I refuse to step up to the plate! I need to clamber on top of this fear of failure. So what if I fail...what's that going to do? Sure, I don't want to just throw myself under the bus or anything, but what's so bad if I'm not perfect all the time? (Because let's face it... I am pretty perfect every once in a while...)

An anecdote from my fiction professor, Prof. Mooney, comes to mind when I talk about this. He told us in class once, that there is a brick wall of shitty ideas in our heads, one long and tall and wide. The only way to get past this brick wall is to take it down, brick by brick. You need to write out and through those shitty stories to get to the masterpieces behind it.

I've always liked that story, because it brings everyone to a similar level--everyone has the capacity to make something great, but they also have the capacity to make something god-awful.

In other news, I'm moving along in my Infinite Summer endeavor, although I am sorely behind. I'm not worried, though, I've got a few days vacation without TV or internet, so I think I'm just going to plug through that with IJ.