The Last Few Years

I'll be the first one to admit it: the sting of rejection is a painful one.  There I was, fresh out of college with my Bachelor of Fine Arts in hand, stoked on life, ready and willing to do what I had to in order to preserve my art-making, but I wasn't fetching any bones in the day-job market.  The yearning in my soul was relentless; all I wanted was to create art--to paint overwhelming, honest expressions on towering canvases.

Of course, I had to find a way to survive while painting: rent, bills, art materials, food--each had its price.  So I started a job search.  Cover letter after cover letter, resume after resume--the count was high, the return was low.  On a good day, I would get so far as the interview and then . . . poof, opportunity made itself disappear.  My heart was spent on the rejection.  It was  frustrating.  I was about as close to pulling out my hair as the next unemployed college graduate, but what good would it do me if I showed up to a prospective employer with patches of hair missing? 

The hardest part was that I knew my potential--my capabilities, my abilities.  Not being able to showcase it or convince employers of it left me questioning everything I was doing.  It wounded me to the very core.  Using the term disdain would only cheapen my feelings for that time.  

People used to tell me they could feel my passion as a painter simply from my speech.  My words were genuine and my need to express was raw.  Painting was what kept me sane.  It was the flame that brought light into a darkened space.  However, for the life of me, I couldn't catch a break to support it--I couldn't seem to get anything together.  During those last six months living in San Jose, I would go to church every Sunday, sit in the back pew, listen to the pastor speak, and let roll a sea of tears down my cheeks.  My spirit was crushed. 

I was moving back to San Francisco, back to my parents' house.  I was clenching teeth, wrestling demons.  The thoughts of flying far and free were fleeting.  As much as some people enjoy living with their parents (free rent, free food, free access to laundry machines), I was about as receptive to the thought as I was to the experience.  Plain and simple, NO.  Heck, I was moving back into my parents' place for goodness sake!  How could I be thrilled with that idea?!  I was about ready to shoot myself.  The relationship I have with my parents only works when we live apart . . . not under one roof.  I was convinced my return to San Francisco meant I couldn't secure independence from them.  More importantly, the move merely underscored the truth: I was failing miserably at life. 

From grueling to experiential, the last few years were definitely a period for the books.  I ended up finding a day job in San Francisco [to support my painting], meeting some exquisite and uplifting souls, losing my paternal grandfather to cancer, turning some birthdays, exhibiting some artwork, and resigning from the aforementioned job because it was unfulfilling. 

That came full circle, didn't it?

Settling into a life that wasn't meant for me isn't something that I want or need.  Contentment, happiness--I don't think I know the meaning to either one.  What I do know is I'm a painter.  Plain and simple.  Struggles (financial, emotional, physical) come with the territory.  The world doesn't call us starving artists without reason.

Through all the good and bad, one of the most profound lessons I learned is not to strain myself trying to figure out those things that cannot be figured out, but to come to terms with them from wherever it is I am standing at the moment.

Let's be honest here.  Innately, we want answers to the occurrence or non-occurrence of events so there isn't some gaping hole in the formation of our brains.  The desire is embedded in us.  We force-feed ourselves with the notion to gather all the answers to the Why's and How's of life so we can sleep better at night.  Life doesn't work that way though.  If the Why's and How's elude us, perhaps it is because their answers are beyond our finite realm of comprehension.  And I'm okay with that.

Quite frankly, there are many things I would like to have done differently, many things I wish I would have said in the days that are now long gone.  However, I am tired of moving around and shuffling in the past--replaying and altering situations in hopes that my efforts would yield a more favorable outcome for the present.

I'm not writing this entry to say life has miraculously changed to an unspeakable better for me.  Because it hasn't.  I am probably closer to where I was three years ago than where it is I want to be three years down the road.  I am writing this entry because it's important to see how our humanness and perspective can change by way of experience, faith, and determination to fulfill our life's purpose.  Keep at it.  It's got to be worth something.

Love & Light.

23 January 2014
Day Log No. 4

Forever State

 

Perpetual fog

Lingering for far too long

 Please bid your farewell

 ---

There is something very curious about the face.  It is an exquisite thing . . . because it tells quietly and without words the stories that no other part of the body can tell [quietly and without words].  Perhaps for this reason, I guard my face; I fear people may see those very things I attempt to keep hidden.  I do not mean just the blemishes, scars, and imperfections of a human face.  I mean those deeply rooted things that show through one's wrinkles and eyes, and the way one's mouth curls and lips quiver, and the tell-tale movement of one's eyebrows.  All those elements together give way to our secrets.

I came across an article about a Los Angeles-based photographer, Jeremy Cowart, last night.  Cowart had the opportunity to photograph the cast of The Haves and HaveNots, which included actor John Schneider.  Somewhere past the finish line of cast shots, Schneider asked Cowart if he could take some personal portraits of him.  The photographer obliged.  What Cowart did not know was Schneider's father had passed away earlier in the day, and the actor only learned about it during lunch.  (Story can be read here: http://jeremycowart.com/2014/01/john-schneider/.)  The images are absolutely raw, heartfelt, and beyond any falsehood.  They are painfully true to the nature of the news.  And the fact that Schneider allowed Cowart to capture his sadness and vulnerability on film, well, that in itself was bravery.  Looking at the photos, I cried a little.  They were that powerful.  So powerful they inspired me to bare my face and share a few stories of my own.

--OH

18 January 2014

Day Log No. 3

. . . Oh Wait, I'm Turning 30

I think the title speaks for itself.  

I may as well slap on a birthday cone hat and start counting down the months until I'm graced with thirty candles on my three-layer chocolate cake.  Soon, those months will become weeks, then days, then hours, then minutes, then seconds.  Before I know it, the big Three-O will be upon me! 

Yikes.

Don't get me wrong.  It's not that I'm not excited about reaching such a milestone.  I'm simply weary . . . and wary.  Wary of the next ten years repeating the last ten.  Let it be said that I had me some fine ol' times in my early twenties (also known as the college years).  However, a lot of it was spent making mistakes.  It's as if failure and rejection made a pact to make my life their fertile playground.  I'm still carrying on though, but with a darn good heavy load.

When you get to be twenty-nine, you think, "Whoa, how did I get here?!"  I still remember when I was in the summer step-up program for high school and the English teacher mentioned she was turning thirty.  I didn't say it aloud, but I sure was thinking it: DANG, THAT'S OLD!  Mind you, I was only thirteen at the time.

And now look at me--in the last year of my twenties.  I thought I would have my life figured out by this point.  I had my game plan: graduate from college at 21; spend a year exploring and traveling the world when I was 22; get my career going at 23; meet a man at 24; get married at 25; have kids no later than 26.

Yea, well . . . NONE of that happened.  

There were roadblocks along the way--tough ones.  I couldn't make my way around them; instead, the only way out was to go through them.  And through them I went!  With as much faith and courage as I could muster.  So believe me when I say it's OK if life doesn't go according to the game plan.  If anything, it just makes us more human and our story more interesting (entertaining even).

On that note, we live in a world where we are inundated with material growth.  Apparently, material growth equates to personal growth.  And at twenty-nine, we are expected to have our life together.   We are frowned upon if our paycheck places us in the bottom tax bracket.  Eyebrows raise if we decide to go after a non-profitable pursuit.  Doors close if we aren't living in a five-bedroom/three-bathroom villa.   Cheeks turn if we no longer look like how we did at 23 (yes, I'm talking to all you 5'8" hottie-cake cakes with hottie-cake friends).  And as always, lips move if we are still single and living with our parents.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: life is about as predictable as it is unpredictable.  We place so much pressure on ourselves to conform into forthright lemmings.  We are temporal.  Mere mortals who have been given an indefinite amount of time on earth to do something extraordinary with the person we are.  Don't let someone else take that from you.  Don't let society take it from you.  Unless you're six feet under or ashes in an urn, your story can be rewritten toward the ending you desire.

So here's to our twenty-ninth year!  Be purposeful!  Make it worth looking back on in a meaningful way.  As for turning thirty . . . well, let's see what's in store for us!

(When I began this entry, I had an entirely different subject and purpose in mind.  It changed somewhere amid the letters and spaces and punctuation marks.)

Day Log Entry No. 2, January 11, 2014

Ready Set Go

I resigned from my day job three months ago.

I did it so I could set sail my dream to paint full time.  To work creatively.  To be my own boss.  

Now, some people (perhaps A LOT of people) think I made a daring, but foolish choice.  I cannot say I disagree.  It was a daring choice because I gave up a stable (albeit small) income to pursue a passion that is without a doubt unstable, and any studio artist knows how important it is to have some type of monetary support.  Foolish primarily because it meant I would have to stay put at my parents' place for a little while longer (NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!) when I was close to moving back out to a place of my own, which I NEED.  Gaaaaaaah, how I miss those days of peace and solitude.

So what am I left with now that all this is said and done?

I'm not sure.  Paper Glass Bottle is exactly that.  A honest platform where I can jot down my foofy interests, peculiar thoughts and larger-than-life visions, images, and ideas.  Sort of like an online smorgasbord of every little thing that catches my eye and brings me pleasure.  It is a small space in cyberland where I can be myself without pretense. 

God speed.  

--Day Log Entry No. 1, January 11, 2014