my journey to being an artist

An appropriate subtitle to my life could be “There and Back Again”, because from my earliest memories, I was an artist. I was always drawing or making something - taking images and ideas from my head and trying to make them real through art. Making art (which is not how I thought of it at the time) was like making magic for me. If my memory serves me right, I was pretty good, too. I never was a scribbler. I’ve actually had to work on that in my abstract practice! I was always particular about where my lines were, and how precisely the colors were added. I didn’t draw stick figures. I drew people that had depth and shape, animals that were moving and had furry edges. I could give the impression of perspective and light sources. This was maybe a year or two after I learned to read at age 4, so it’s not like I had studied art.

I remember getting a little guidance/inspiration from my Dad, and even from my brothers - all talented in their own right. But the work of my paternal grandfather is what really inspired me. I remember visiting him in Michigan when I was still just a little guy. My favorite place was in the basement, because that’s where Grandpa’s drafting table was. I can still remember the smell of the markers, paints, thinners, pencils, and erasers. He had old soup cans and coffee cans filled with art making materials. Of course, I didn’t know what most of them were for, and didn’t have any idea how to use them. Except for pencils and markers - I was handy with those! He also had rolls of paper and would set us up with whatever I wanted. For the next several hours, I’d be completely absorbed with expressing whatever was happening in my imagination. I probably only wandered back upstairs when I was hungry.

After my grandfather’s passing, my Dad received much of his art materials and equipment and books. I remember poring over some Walter T. Foster drawing books and being captivated with the easy way he had of making things come to life with just a few simple strokes. I spent my preteen and teen years with a pencil and pad of paper at the ready, always drawing, doodling, and playing with expression, pushing the boundaries of what I could do.

So what happened? How did I get lost from the art path for over 30 years? Why did I put down my pencils?

I was grudgingly convinced that I needed to pursue more responsible means of making a living. The environment I was raised in didn’t look at the arts as a viable way to make a living. Jobs where you worked for a boss, showed up for 40+ hours a week, got a pension or some sort of retirement plan…that was seen as the way forward. And while there is nothing wrong with working hard for someone else for 40+ hours a week, it wasn’t the right way for me. I know this because I tried it for the next 30 years. And it was miserable. I was miserable.

I worked a varied and variously skilled lineup of jobs after high school, trying different things that interested me, and some that simply paid better. Some required lots of certifications and continuing training, but most required me to be brain dead. Those were the worst jobs, even if they paid the most. Weirdly, the brain dead jobs required the most certifications. I couldn’t see myself doing this for the rest of my life.

Eventually, I found myself living abroad with my wife, and due to governmental incompetence, unable to legally work for over two years. This situation tends to leave a person with a lot of time on their hands, and a lot of time to think about what to do with that time. I found myself wanting to make things with my hands, a pastime I’d had as a child. I was always making my own toys out of sticks, bits of pipe, nails, screws, whatever I could get my hands on.

I had access to wood. Lots of wood. So I got my hands on a cheap carving knife and a carving axe, and started to make spoons, bowls, and whatever else I could think of. I’d sell these things at local markets and any other way I could find. This was the beginning of waking up my creative mind. Eventually, I started to make some sculptural pieces of art, and that’s when a spark of intuition was flamed into a burning ember. I was beginning to realize that I was meant to be an artist.

Eventually, life brought my wife and me to San Francisco. With little space and nowhere to do woodworking, I needed to turn my creative energy toward something a bit more small apartment friendly. And I began to draw again. This time, I would create without any of the restraints of the past, and was fueled by 30 years of pent up imagination. I finally feel at home with myself. I know that what I work on each day is important and meaningful.

I make art. I am an artist.