Long ago, in a not-so-far-away-place, I too was an artist. I wasn’t some pompous poser pretending. I was authentic, right down to my cargo jeans and finest Kurt Cobain plaid.
Let’s face it; you’re not really an artist if your pants can’t hold at least five tools always at the ready for your next master creation.
My muse was the human body. I took my sweet time…
-Etching ridged spines into Plexiglas with a razor blade,
-Forming exsanguinated hearts out of clay that were anatomically accurate in size and weight,
-And sculpting shriveled mummy hands out of resin using a hairdryer to manipulate the sticky digits.
What’s a hairdryer good for anyway?
Sculpting of course.
I’ll never forget the look on my instructor’s face when he impatiently insisted 15 months was an unacceptable amount of time to spend on a 3 ft. x 3 ft. painting, and I muttered that Michelangelo wasn’t rushed. Why should I make haste?
After I graduated high school…
The plan was…
- Take Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) by storm medical illustration style.
- Use my mad design skills to create a cargo wheelchair so I could carry 5,937 art instruments.
- Make a medical textbook publishing company fall in love with my artwork and hire me.
- World domination.
Queue Dr. Evil laugh and lawyer jargon declaring that my steps to achieve this goal are proprietary.
After the influence of others who were concerned about my medical condition…
The plan became…
- Go to a local college.
- Get the general education requirements out of the way.
- Learn to be independent.
Then, unleash my tempest wrath upon RIT, following the necessary steps leading to world domination.
Well that shit didn’t happen either.
After some misinformation about medical illustration, and accepting the fact that my muscles were going to slowly waste away…
The plan was fucking FUBAR…
-I never took RIT by storm.
-I never designed a cargo wheelchair.
-I never became a medical illustrator.
But instead of raising a white flag, surrendering to my situation, I formulated a new a new plan and mounted a pirate flag on my wheelchair’s mast.
Sidebar: I didn’t actually put a flag on my wheelchair. That was a metaphor about inner strength. Personally, I feel putting a flag on a wheelchair is douchey.
So I took my buried treasures of art and writing to the high internet seas helping artists sell their booty while I shake my booty.
World domination isn’t that far off.
What pirate flag have you raised to get your life where you want it to be?