One day while strolling at the Santa Monica Promenade with the fam, we passed by multitudes of freaks and geeks showing their wares, juggling various objects, singing, bellowing, strumming all their various tin pans, and finally, the lone derelict with a sign and a grin in big bold: No Talent.
My mother immediately let out a loud laugh and gave the man a couple of bucks for being honest, ironic and hilarious.
Yesterday, I felt like a no talent. Yes, it was in the inevitably charged atmosphere of my beginning drawing class. There, surrounded by 18, 19 and 20-year olds, I came to the hasty conclusion that: I suck at drawing.
This was a horribly profound existential moment, that destabilized the very basis of my escape from Los Angeles to San Francisco. I'm here to be an artist, to pursue art, and yet what to do when your charcoal still life of eggs and drapery ends up looking invariably like black and white lines with little to no contrast?
Horrible, horrible, horrible. I left class feeling like the dumb kid-- the one that can't get anything right, the one you never expect much from since much is never given.
The eternally sly and cool (and not to mention fine) prof said, "Hang in there. We'll be doing lots of different things this semester," which to me translated into, "You suck, but you kinda look good in the black pants and boots." I felt like a dejected loser. Who am I kidding with this artist shit?
Home, to make the long-distance phone calls and complain to the family, whose advice was as follows: Mom: Get your PhD. Art is a hobby.
Pops: Get your PhD.
19 Year Old Sister: Get a job.
All this was very enlightening and persuasive and even useful in a masochistic way. A few hours later, I decided to stick to art school.