Five Steps
For the third time that day, I was staring at my mother’s photograph. Compared to my last memories of her, it was utterly soulless, but that’s a given. A camera can never truly capture someone’s self in a single picture. That’s an ability exclusive to those few great artists, who not only capture, but sometimes even surpass their subject. I was never skilled enough to do that.
It was a tragedy, of course, but in a way, her death put me on the right path. On the practical side, I inherited a sum of money large enough that I could afford to not work for at least a year. And from an artistic standpoint, it was my sad story. The shock to the system that every great artist needs to melt off the outer mind layers and get to the Real essence underneath—that’s what I was waiting for since I was a child. I always fantasized about horrible things—war, disease, every kind of apocalypse—that would truly puncture my soul and rescue me from boring, more everyday kinds of pain. My mother’s death didn’t do it exactly as I imagined, but it did provide me with the right kind of melancholy that could potentially manifest in some interesting expressions.
In this intersection of perfect circumstances, I decided: I would either become a great, True artist, or die. Simple as.
What helped my determination immensely was how reachable it all felt. All the right ingredients were inside me already, they were for a long time, and now, I just had to reach inside myself and pull them out into the real world. The only thing that ever stopped me was my own will. This was my time of transformation; these would be the days that, if I were to become famous, would be the one thing everyone would ask about.
It was time to focus. I cancelled everything I was planning, gave up on everyone I was talking to, locked myself in my house, and got to work.
The first few weeks were quite difficult. Attempts to express myself felt awkward, as if I was trying to speak with a stutter or dance with a broken leg. The struggle was not quite in technique but more in creating something actually honest, something that could resonate, an image with a tangible soul. But still, I persisted. There is no problem on this earth that cannot be solved with enough determination.
I drew and drew, everything I could, every single day, 10 hours a day, the most I could manage before my brain started melting. When I wasn’t drawing, I was studying. To become a great artist, you need to learn all the fundamentals; that’s a given. I did many master studies, especially of art, that I felt had a soul, that felt Real. I paid attention to every single stroke, line of action, primary, secondary, tertiary shape design, every single carefully placed decision, and dreamt about the day, that my work would also feel Real.
Not having a job anymore certainly helped me with this effort. When I had to spend the day talking to people, it messed with me, stiffened my hands, made me nervous and panicky in the most unproductive way. After work, I’d spend hours lying down, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconnect with my own mind.
I only realized how much this was destroying me, when I could finally spend hours, days, weeks completely alone. The more time I spent buried in my art, the more the thought of talking to others seemed like a distant nightmare.
It was bliss, really. Nothing mattered, except me and my work. I would wake up, not even knowing what time it was, draw and study as much as I could, then go to sleep to recharge and do it again. One thing you always hear about great artists is that they were completely submerged into their art, and now, I finally knew what that felt like. I was my art, and my art was me, my tools being my speech, my work being my thought process. My brain was a carefully built primordial pool, only filled with the most aesthetic thoughts.
Despite this joy, over the months, my frustration heightened. I was doing exactly what I always wanted to do, so I didn’t quite understand why. I figured it was a problem of will, a roadblock I had to battle against. When my jaw clenched and my thoughts started racing again, I just gripped my pencil and worked harder. Worked harder, worked harder, that was all I ever did. It hurt, but in a punishing way, it felt right. Even at my lowest, I thought I was exactly where I needed to be.
I learned to love frustration, frustration is good, frustration is growth, artistic growth. You have to experience it and get to the other side; smash your head against the wall, and it will eventually break.
For the first few months, this tension fueled me. It felt like something Real. But eventually, there were moments where it was too much to bear, even with the power of pure will, and I had to get up from my work and pace around in my bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, five steps from my desk to the door, five steps back.
I had the whole house to myself, but I did not like any of the other rooms. They all felt separate from my artistic self, full of memories and associations that would contaminate my mind, curated, fragile and specialized, like a lab-made chemical mixture, that would fizzle out when touched by anything different than itself.
But that was okay, really. My room reflected me more than any other place on earth; it was perfect for my routine. Everywhere I looked, there were my art supplies, my art taped on the walls and lying on the floor, along with prints of works that inspired me. Why would I need to go anywhere else?
And yet, despite all this, despite all the work, despite all the frustration I endured, despite molding my whole existence to this one endeavor, my art still never felt real. Quite honestly, it felt dead, as if made by someone who never saw the real world before. I comforted myself. Every day, I told myself that the reason it was so difficult was because my path was so grand. A fly can be born and live its empty life after just one day, a swan needs a month, a lion 4 months. I could feel my teeth growing day by day, but they were never visible. I told myself that I just had to wait, I had to keep working hard, one more day, one more drawing, one after another, one more, one more.
One morning, something in me broke. I just did not want to draw anymore. My whole body was stiff with terror. Looking at my supplies filled me with such visceral disgust, that I had to look away. I took a few steps towards my drawing table and, without even thinking, backed away into a corner, next to the door, pressing into it, trying to get as far away from art as possible.
I sat down, wanting to press myself into the floor and hide, like some kind of rodent. The walls were looming over me. There was still a rational voice in my head, telling me, that I needed to get back to work, but it felt distant, weak against the choking primal fear.
My hands were shaking. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t draw, I didn’t even want to be in the same room as my art anymore. But if I couldn’t do that, if I couldn’t work hard for my destiny, what else could I possibly do?
In my nervous daze, I realized, that my phone has been ringing for a couple of minutes. For a moment, I thought it was some kind of hallucination. No one ever called me, I haven’t even touched my phone for a long time. It was lying on the floor, in the middle of the room.
I tried to ignore the sound. I always hated phone calls. They made me feel like I had no control. But as it kept ringing and ringing, my heart rate was increasing, my breathing so quick that I was gasping, I realized, that I needed to do something. Anything. Anything at all.
I lunged towards the phone and quickly brought it back into my corner. My fingers were so sweaty, that it was difficult to even accept the call.
It was my former classmate. We had similar tastes in many things and got along quite well. He was one of the few people I ever gave my phone number to. He was saying something to me. I asked him to repeat. He said he was going to a nearby art gallery and that we could go together. He said he remembered how I always loved art. He said he wanted to reconnect. He said he could come by my house and pick me up in his car. What did I think? What did I think?
I said yes. He said he would come soon and hung up.
For a moment, I did feel nice. Hearing his voice really lifted my spirits, reminded me of better days, when we talked about all kinds of things. I wondered, if he grew his hair out as he said he would, the last time I saw him.
I thought about what I agreed to. I liked art galleries. Maybe I would have a great time.
My hands started shaking again.
No, this wasn’t great, this was a nightmare, actually. I realized, that second by second, he was getting closer. Eventually, he would arrive in front on my house, knock on my door. And he would look at me, and then we would go out, further and further away from home, go between the strangers and the loud sounds, and there would be nowhere to run.
I was hyperventilating. We would go to the gallery. Have I been in that one before? I don’t think I have. I would probably have to get a map of it. Do they have those there, or not? What would I say, if he’d ask me about my opinions? I can’t express anything True. I would vomit.
I tried to steady my fingers enough to type his number. This number does not exist, try again. Missed it again by the last number. Third time.
The moment he picked up, I yelled that I wasn’t coming. I wanted to be polite, to be normal, but my mind was racing. I took a deep breath and still half -shouting, told him, that I was so, so sorry, but that I didn’t have the time, that I needed to focus on my art more. Before he could respond, I hung up and threw the phone across the room.
There was a moment of silence. Then, relief.
This was close, very, very close. After this shock, I was so relieved that I was still in my room, on my own, surrounded only by my own thoughts. Yes, I really was happy. There was nowhere else in the world, where I wanted to be more.
Still shaking, I got up, took one, two, three, four, five steps across the room and sat down at my desk. It was time to focus again.