Alone [manxman]

twenty:: when you hold yourself accountable. *

[Strange by Celeste]

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TWENTY: when you hold yourself accountable

PAUL

I hadn't created anything worth anything in too long.

It was almost like my hands were confused of themselves, my mind drawing blanks every time I sat down in my studio. SAIC was expensive, of course, and the facilities clearly reflected it. The studios were the size of two classrooms, completely empty with the exception of drafting tables for each artist. A few easels were lined up against the wall and in other departments such as photo, there were computers, printers and the extension of a dark room.

My apartment was conveniently about five minutes away from the studio building and ten minutes from campus so dropping by and creating on the way too and fro was easy.

In theory, at least, it seemed like it would be easy, that was really why I'd rented out the place, and in tuition and loans, it felt wast to justify the extra thousand a month. It was easy, for the first year but as things in my personal life became less hectic and I -in turn- started to go through more heartache, I hated how one-toned my work had become and my artistic drive had slowed. 

All my pieces started to feel morose, sad really and the lack of inspiration caused me to halt altogether.

I hadn't made anything substantial in months and despite having ample time to decide on a final, I didn't even have a thumbnail sketch that might even kind of work out. "Fuck!"

Nothing worth sale.

It was so silent when I'd groaned, scratching out the sketch I'd been deliberating on, it filling up too much of the page. In heated frustration, I ripped it out, dropping it onto the floor alongside splatters of dried paint. The assignment was to use both natural and man-made materials and assemble a two-foot high sculpture that represented some fucking theme and I both had no theme or idea of materials to use.

What would I say? What did I even have to say recently? I was in such an artistic slump and the other painting majors I shared this studio with probably laughed at the lack of art I left in this room each night.

I made nothing aside from still lifes recently, maybe what my art needed was a change of scenery.

At some point, I started to feel more like Picasso, minus the emotional turmoil, he too had lost love, lost family and stopped creating because of it.

All the greats had periods where they went through blocks, right? What if tortured artists existed but only in a fraction of those creating masterpieces and artists like Van Gogh would be an anomaly? Maybe trudging through grief could influence work that reflected anguish but in less developed artists, a color palette that only reflected inner melancholy.

Maybe I just didn't have the range or the ability to focus on my art when my grandmother was so sick she could barely get out of bed, all my work looked the same just as she did every week I visited. What if seeing her tubed up was the reason it weighed so heavy on me.

But, what if that was just an excuse? Maybe I just didn't have the drive.

I can do this if I push myself.

Sketching out a curve, I went to mimic movement in dance -maybe if I focused in on something that reminded me of Abuelita, there would be an emotion that transcended the fear for her state.  I tried my best to draft out something that resembled a tango, but it quickly turned phallic and I found myself crumpling the page tossing it as well.