the ides of february

sometimes, when i narrow in on it, i realize i'm afraid of just one thing: that in pouring myself in, that by intertwining myself with it so completely, i will feel the rejections all the more. that i will believe their raucous lies and copy their cruel, mocking gestures, and ultimately reject myself.

i spent all week trying to create a more personal concept for my pieces. i researched new techniques and dug through old images, experimented with visualizing my memories and attempted to draw out my integral connection to my past. all the while i feebly reminded myself not to be disheartened by the process of making ugly art, of spending time in the journey of learning and discovery.
such repeated warnings offer little use to a mind so unwilling to listen. especially to itself.

my professor gave me the critique i asked and hoped for: thorough, sincere, helpful. without expression, he laid my pieces (the result of seven days of constant mental labor and one full night of focused efforts) in a smooth horizontal line across the table, then sank slowly back into his seat.
i closed my eyes. i tried to imagine the paintings through his.
suddenly, my beautiful, poetic, figurative memory-scapes became poorly crafted, failingly executed, and conceptually weak. three of the paintings i immediately discarded from the responsibility of my hands, an abortion of the physical embodiment of my efforts; the others i traitorously snubbed from recognition.
i braced myself for his reaction.

faultily crafted. choppy strokes. needs divisions. scattered focus on certain concepts. could redo this idea. don't present these paintings.

all criticisms were kindly said. sweetly given.
i looked at my art again, disgusted. all desire to make something new had effectively fled.

it's difficult, i told him later. it's hard not to equate such criticisms on my pieces with criticisms on myself. it's frustrating to spend so much time making paintings that look so ugly and please so little.

after class, i took a long stroll through the surrounding halls. i tried to understand what and how the creators of the other paintings already seemed to understand-- but they all stared back at me, smirking their giant secret.

with as menacing a glare as i could manage, i haughtily shoved my bag of supplies over my shoulder, squeezed my fingers into my pockets and gave a theatrical march out the door. i would not let this daunt me-- not for the moment, anyway.