The scope of my stuff has always been realism. For some reason (like I don't know), I have a need to make things match, to be perfect (not possible, I know). I would constantly be accused of copying over stuff, which I do not do, I match it by eye from the original. I have done so many drawings that I have destroyed because they "weren't right" that frankly I find it sad now.

When I got into school, I entered art classes with some of my peers. For a time it was quite enjoyable, allowing me to see different ways to make things appear on paper... not just by pencil, as was the only thing I had before that:

We were expected to do about ten drawings a week for grade, as well as our in class projects, which ranged from drawing (shading practice) grapes, vases and other objects on drapes, to painting color wheels strip by strip (add one drop of the darker color to the lighter mix, then paint, then again... all the way around the whole wheel).

(Dots only - Ink one shot)

(etching with scalpal on black cardboard)

By my second year in the art class, things started going badly. The teacher had a lot of favorites, spending most of her time lauding praises on them and judging the rest of us or just ignoring it completely. The criticism was a bit hard to swallow at the time... considering this was also in the highest period of stress for me at the time (divorce of parents occurring... torture at school... torture at home... etc). Art became a chore. It became something that just wasn't good enough for anyone... not the teacher, not the peers, not anyone at home... and finally not me. It felt like it was burned out of me. It was gone, the enjoyment was squelched.

I made it throughout college, rarely lifting a pencil to paper in artistic endeavour. I rarely felt the inclination or the drive. I never felt satisfied with anything. When I did feel the 'urge', It would take me forever to get anything done, I would stop and start, stretching out how long it would take to finish up a piece to over a year at times. It was like a chore.

(jaguar that caught my eye off a birthday card... took me over 3 years to finish it)

I started challenging myself to try to put out more, to break thru this mental blockade that seeps out anything that approaches enjoyment with the pencil. I wanted to try to draw people better, something I always had problems with and had never gotten guidance on how to do.

I became enamored with the works of Norman Rockwell. Not only did this man put out painting after painting on a timely basis for a living... but he also managed to capture the American Spirit and the ranges of emotions at specific moments. I can look at his paintings and 'feel' what the character is thinking at the time... whimsy, fear, exhaustion, etc. This is the man that is my greatest idol.

I still find myself cursed with the need for perfection. All of my pictures are wrought in uncertainty and dissatisfaction... my pencil stroke is harsh and jagged... I lack my ability to be certain... to be okay with however it turnes out. I have few drawings anymore which I consider 'originally mine', ie. something which I envision in my mind. I can never seem to be happy with whatever I try to make that way. I have countless unfinished pieces in my sketch book... all demanding my attention. I can see what they look like... I just can't seem to make it come out. I doubt. But then again, I doubt everything.

Sometimes I wonder what I would have been had I pursued this. If I actually still enjoyed it. I feel like I don't have the ability to dream sometimes... that it was burned away, taking this with it... diminishing it.