I made the mistake of reading the Wikipedia entry for John Wayne Gacy on Sunday. I guess it wasn't a mistake. I knew what I was doing.

I've been listening to Age of Adz constantly since I saw Sufjan Stevens last November. I finally got around to reading some of the lyrics to his songs Sunday afternoon. They are so intense and full of emotion, songs that mostly revolve around the story of the self-proclaimed prophet, Royal Robertson, a schizophrenic who estranged himself from everyone he knew, even his wife and children.



What is so fascinating to me is that even after knowing that most of the album is about Robertson, it is still powerful, it impacts me deeply, and I relate to it in an uncanny way.

Sufjan Stevens has done the same type of thing before. One of his most beautiful songs is about one of the most horrific stories. I didn't know the extent of Gacy's crimes until I read about them on Sunday.

I haven't been that engrossed in reading in a long time. I am usually completely ADD when text is in front of me, but I was glued to this story.

Why is it that we become so engrossed with stories such as this? The accounts that should make us cover our eyes make us wide-eyed. Truman Capote became relentless in capturing the whole story for In Cold Blood. Knoxville followed the trials for the torturing and murders of Channon Christian and Chris Newsom. Dr. Helen Morrison, who interviewed Gacy during his trial, actually kept his brain after it was removed post-execution. We are obsessed with knowing what kind of person would do these things, what their life was like before, and how far over the edge they fell.



Gacy as a boy

I don't really have an answer, and I'm not sure if I'm looking for one. All I can think is that we become intrigued knowing someone could take the anger or sadness that is in all of us to such a level. If we are honest, we understand, to our horror, that if one thing was different about our lives, it could have been us.


In my best behavior I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards, for the secrets I have hid.

I borrowed Magnolia from a friend the other day because I had never seen it. After reading about Gacy, I couldn't bring myself to watch anything that would add to my deep melancholic state. I'm not going to watch it (for now) and though I had been toying with the idea, I finally decided not to see Black Swan. I'm sure Natalie Portman's performance is award-winning and I'm sure it is good art, but I know these things won't overshadow what else watching the movie will mean to me. I know being an artist means exposing myself to all forms of art, but I also know my limitations. Am I a pansy? Maybe that is partially true, but there is more to it that I won't get into at the moment. For now, the tragic images and stories of reality are enough for me to lament over; right now, I can't purposefully add more.

In other news, I'm ready for winter to be over.

I spent the first hour of work this morning alongside a sweet, elderly woman. We stood outside her pretty home, the sky overcast above us, looking at a decorative wrought iron fence. It has been lying under the large Magnolia Tree in her side yard ever since it was removed from her in-law's home, which was demolished to make way for a shopping center.

Despite wanting to, she could never find a way to make it work outside of her house, so she is giving it to me.

"There's another piece lying around here somewhere," she said as she pushed back the branches of the tree.

"There it is!"

We hunched down amongst the branches, neither of us dressed to get dirty, and moved the earth away with our hands, uncovering elaborately curving metal. She was more eager to free it, as evidenced by the mud that caked her hands, but I'll have to return with proper clothes and tools another day. Then will start my mission to find the person who will transform these pieces back to their former state, to be used once again for what they were intended.

If an artist tells you they like making commissioned pieces, they need money, and they are lying.

The problem with commissions is that they turn making art into making money, which can be depressing for the creatively inclined. Obviously, most artists would rather a buyer be interested in what they have already made than making something with perimeters from someone else.

A commission also means pleasing the buyer during the art-making process, but we (artists) are plagued by the fact that we're on a different wavelength than others. We've embraced that we're off beat, and trying to please a normal person with enough money to commission a painting can be overwhelming.

I know I like this penguin riding a shark in the middle of a field, but will they?

This is why I never went into graphic design. Yes, it might have meant worrying less about finances, but it would have also meant being a slave to the client over and over again. Not to mention I'm technologically stunted.

















The Eaton's Home
acrylic on artist panel
18 x 24"
2010

Of course, after all this complaining, I have to say I'm incredibly thankful for the commissions that have come my way. My last commissioned painting of 2010 was how I bought my family's Christmas presents, after all, and I couldn't be happier with the outcome or the reaction I received from it.

It was a painting of my friends' home in North Knoxville, a Birthday/ Christmas surprise from Lesley Eaton (of Peppered Paper) to her husband Laurence.

And so I've found a commission I like: painting people's historic homes. For one, working from a photograph is less stressful because it's straightforward; there's no risk of putting something in that they won't like. Two: I know they like my style going into it, so I can relax about making it my own. Three: It's exciting to be a part of making something that is so personal to a family, and in the Eaton's case, even more so because this is their first home which I know they've put a lot of work into. Four: I like knowing I'm documenting an old structure. I see it as a way to preserve heritage.

***

And just to clarify. Yes! I would love to do a commissioned painting for you, as long as you like penguins riding sharks in fields.

three: make posts as short and sweet as possible.

four: try not to become obsessed with documenting everything I see, think, and do.

I've been craving sushi a lot lately.

I decided instead of going to a restaurant, though, that I'd buy the ingredients and make enough for a week- a proper response to all the holiday-inspired crap I've been eating the past few weeks.

I went to the fancy Kroger tonight, where I knew they'd carry the items I needed. I was almost ready to check out when I decided to run down the household aisle to see if there was anything I needed.

While there, I noticed an Asian man (pardon my uncultured-self for not knowing what country he was from) kneeling down in front of the Baby section, looking back and forth between a small list of items and the sea of products in front of him. It was obvious he was having a difficult time.

I passed him by and left the aisle with a pang of guilt for not helping him. He'll figure it out eventually.

But then I had this image of his small adorable wife with their baby in one arm, handing him that list earlier in the evening. "Make sure you get exactly what this says," she'd say, except not in English.

And I thought about how overwhelming grocery shopping is for me, a speaker of English- all the different brands and prices and slight differences in ingredients. It's too much.

These thoughts combined caused me to wheel my mini-cart (I love the fancy Kroger!) around and walk back to the Baby section where I found the man still on his knees.

After pretending for a few moments to look for items for my fake baby, I asked if he needed any help. "Yes!" he exclaimed as if he was waiting for someone to ask.

Even with my assistance, I'm not sure if we got what his wife needed. The bizarre twist of this story is that after I got over myself and helped this man, he told me he worked in the Sushi section. It was only then I noticed his hat said KROGER.

He got up off of his knees and asked me to follow him. Moments later, I used my hands to stuff my mouth with one eel roll and one blue crab roll that he had freshly prepared for me. He didn't box the rolls up for me to take home like I expected; he wanted me to eat them right there.

People walked by, confused, yet amused. I felt the same way, with a bit of gratefulness mixed in.


this is not him, btw

I've been toying with this idea for a while now and am finally taking the plunge. It's really about time.

The purpose is mostly to document and write about the things I make, but I'm not limiting myself to just that.

My only two goals at this point are:

one: to post at least once a week and

two: not to post photos of my cat twice in a row.

Other than that, the possibilities are endlessssssssssssss...

...but just to get things rolling, here's a picture of my cat: