Page 2 of Rivals
I will win. I may not be as desperate as I once was in terms of the starving artist life, but you better believe I will do whatever it takes. This is what makes a career. This is what gets your name in front of people wealthy enough to throw money at you or gallerists who feature artists like Warhol. No more working double shifts to keep the lights on and struggling to buy paint supplies.
I glance over at Lachlan, and his eyes are already on me.
Game on.
Professor Tate finishes explaining the rules, informing us that we have one month until the first round, and students can have teams or present individually. I’ve never been much of a teamwork kind of girl. Most artists aren’t because it’s all so personal, so vulnerable. It always has been for me.
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs in my life. Those rock bottom moments where you feel like you’re drowning and can feel your lungs lurching for air. The numb ones where you feel like you’re dying, and you hardly notice because you’re already half-dead. I mean, sure, I’ve thought about the other options. I wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. I would be an ink stain on the long list of sad deaths in this world, and that would be the end of it.
I thought about it when I hit one of the lowest points of my life. But, for some reason, I held on, hoping for light. I managed to put what I was feeling into a painting. It had to come out somehow. I work in various forms, like charcoal, acrylic, oil, and photography. I like to mix things up, and my mood usually determines my medium. In this case, the scale of the canvas portrayed the size of my feelings. It was a monstrous, painful piece of my bleeding heart. It was messy and abstract in nature, with large, bold swaths of red and black. Its intensity was a literal display of my unbearable emotions.
I wanted to throw it away because I thought it would help me move on from that singular moment that was so painful I had to transfer the agony. Then, an agent who came to the school to find the next up-and-comer saw it and said he could sell it.
I hesitated, but the reality was that I needed the cash. So, I reluctantly said yes. But I definitely didn’t like the idea of my pain above someone’s headboard or fireplace. Then he sold it for five thousand dollars. I still have no idea why anyone paidanythingfor it.
No longer a starving artist but still in agony.
There is a reason they say art takes courage. There is a reason most artists are moody assholes or what many would consider overdramatic, maybe a little manic. Real art comes from a place of pain, and it’s not just in painting. Art comes in many forms, but the point remains.
Art can be born from pain but also overwhelming joy. Granted, I have yet to experience that myself. However, I have seen it.
Myrivaldid it. At least, he claimed to.
Lachlan didn’t look happy to me. He just looked bored and pissed.
Class ends, and I grab my bag to go to my space in the shared community room. I don’t have another class today, so I might as well get started.
My mind immediately goes to canvas and acrylics. It was the first thing that popped up in my mind, so I’ll go with it. I’ve learned not to question my artistic inclinations. It’s part of the creative process and the flow of it all. I might ruin this canvas, but that means my next one will probably reflect my vision. Or, it could all come to me now. I really hope it does.
It may be a community college art program, but it’s still in New York, and even this little school has great professors. I’ve learned how to respond to your creativity and work with the muse instead of fighting it. But sometimes, she’s a fickle bitch.
I’ve worked my butt off to pay for school and rent for a tiny apartment I share with a Ph.D. student, who I hardly ever see. One semester at a time, I have paid my way in blood, sweat, and tears. This city isn’t for the faint of heart. I was about to throw in the towel, then that painting sold.
They were impressed by what I did, by the translation of pain. All I could think when I got the money was, do they expect me to create like this consistently? I feel like it was a one-and-done situation. Now, the canvas feels imposing and impossible.
I love making art. It’s been my constant, but there is a darker side to this life. Art must come from somewhere. Lately, after my last piece, I can’t figure out where the well ran dry. I’ve got nothing, and the pressure keeps mounting.
I’ve been known to force inspiration and do drugs. Not often. I’m not an addict… yet. If I can’t think of something for the MoMA competition, I will have to use again. I don’t see any other option because this opportunity will give my career as an artist a solid launch pad that I would have never gotten otherwise. If I win, then I feel like all I’ve been through will be worth it.
Chapter 3
Lachlan
Noonewantstobe a creative. A creative can be anything from photography to painting to dance. It’s this thing inside. I call it a beast. It’s not bad, per se. Then again, Picasso and Van Gogh were said to have lost touch with reality. They aren’t the only artists that struggled with the ravenous beast within. Kurt Cobain and Robin Williams, the list is unfortunately long, so maybe it is bad. It’s not something anyone strives for as a child. But that thing, my beast, has to be fed through the expression of art. I learned that at a young age, it doesn’t matter how painful it is. It doesn’t care that I have nothing else in my life but it.
It. Does. Not. Care.
So, I’m forced to respond to it. If I don’t listen, then it manifests itself in other ways. For many, it’s not a bad thing. Maybe they drink a little too much, but they aren’t alcoholics. Some use sex and meaningless hookups to utilize that built-up energy. Some, very few, use it for good and help others.
Arguably, the majority of creatives can’t do any of that. They have to face the beast. It’s an intensity that would overwhelm anyone. It is a raging urge to put pieces of your heart out in anguish because you have to expel it from your soul. Because if you don’t, it will do it for you. Only as an artist everyone gets to see your pain and observe it as is, detached from your being.
Being like this forces a life of such severity it’s almost debilitating, a constant battle within. I feel too much or absolutely nothing. It is the ebb and flow of a litany of emotions that I have to roll with because if I try to fight it, I will pay for it. I don’t know how it will manifest, and I don’t know when, but when it’s time, I must answer to it.
Some say, “That’s just depression. Get a medication to make it go away”. But what they don’t realize is that even if it’s depression, you can’t medicate. If you medicate, you numb out. If you numb out, it’s almost more painful to produce art. And if you can, it all feels…mediocre at best.
So I have to make a decision. I either live with the pain to create the art to satiate the beast, or I medicate to function and live in the agony of not being able to make anything.
I know only one other person like me in this world of art, and I see her in her space in our community room. Somehow, we have ended up at the same pathetic community college because it’s all we could afford. I think that’s why I don’t like her. She’s a tiny thing with long, black hair and dark features. While we were in class, I noticed she put on weight. She’s typically very skinny. Like the rest of us, she doesn’t eat. We’re too broke for barely anything other than ramen. She’s got a nice rack, though, not really any curves, but then again, she probably doesn’t haveenoughweight on her. I don’t know why I pay such close attention to her, I just do. I always have.
