#just take all my art degree and write “worthless with sharpie on it and on my forehead while your at it

[danascullysjournal]

I was just shopping for some graphic shirts and I ran across one designated “AI Designed”

Screaming crying throwing up staring into a void of nothing ai is taking everything I love, making bastardized owl pellet mash ups and trying to sell it to me

[bluddyhanz]

Entry 03

07 December 2021. 3:08 P.M.

To preface, I was introduced minutes ago to a painting done by Alan Stephens Foster called “The Fall.” If you’re interested in seeing it, I reblogged it right before this post.

After aggressively hunting for any information on this painting I could find and then finding jack shit, I decided I would use it as inspiration and see where my brain takes me. Be warned, I am not good at continuity and even less likely to write something that doesn’t necessarily describe or bring this painting to life, but instead feels the way this painting makes me feel.

That being said, I digress.

The Ignorant Will Call Them Enemies

An overactive imagination, futile optimism, and outright stupidity- all things I’ve been accused of in my short 17 years of life, and not just by strangers and friends with “good intentions.” My parents especially have a hard time supporting me and the things I desire, but I’ve learned to live with their constant worried tones and disappointed gaze.

And in this moment, it is worth it.

Every brush stroke and added detail breathes life into the story. Every moment I spend painting the closer I feel to the men on the canvas. My teacher passes by, peering over my shoulder, and stops. Usually when she does this I clam up, mess up, or freeze completely, but this time is different. This time I’m too captivated to care.

“That’s... unusual subject matter. For you, at least.” She’s a high-school art teacher trying to sound like she has a clue. She could’ve just said “Toby you usually draw buildings,” and that would’ve sufficed, but unnecessary jargon like “subject matter” finds its way into her comments so often I feel it must be a way to compensate for the fact that an expensive art degree only got her a worthless job in a good-for-nothing town.

Regardless, I’m grateful for her guidance.

“You should look through my sketchbooks,” I mutter. She’s right, I only draw buildings in this class. It’s a lot easier and timely to not have to convey an emotion or come up with some thrilling concept. I simply would rather get my classwork done and create for myself. Now that I think of it, maybe I’m private to a fault: that’s probably the reason my parents don’t understand my goals.

The finest piece of art they’ve seen from me is a realistic rendition of the front of our house, which they promptly hung on the fridge, and forgot all about (until they go looking for the milk or butter, I guess).

This piece is something you’d only find inside one of my many sketchbooks, and though I’d been hesitant to put the idea on display for my shitty high school art class, I couldn’t waste the opportunity to paint it. The idea had been so adamant that passing up a chance to have access to free canvas, free supplies, and long blocks of time to work on it would’ve been criminal. And now that it’s nearly finished, I’m grateful I didn’t forfeit that chance.

I’ve done it in blacks and whites and grays, like it’s a photograph from 1942, though depicting a modern setting. A well-dressed man jumps from the open door of a taxi-cab to embrace another, foreheads pressed together, a hand around the back of his presumed “lover’s” head. His arm hides their faces, but it’s clear that they’re kissing (at least I had intended that to be clear when I drew it). The other (equally well-dressed) man has one hand under the armpit of the airborne man, the other reaching back to brace their incoming fall to the cement. A faceless and fading out crowd of people are depicted on either side of the display, witnessing the intimate moment.

“Are they fighting?”

I fight the violent urge to break the freshly painted canvas over my teacher’s head. In no way is she exclusionary- she had made that very clear when she introduced herself to us at the beginning of the semester- but clearly she has not escaped the influence of our (frustratingly) heteronormative society. With a sigh, I take a sharpie and put my signature in the bottom right-hand corner, along with the title I had come up with just now as a result of her dumbass question.

The ignorant will call them enemies.

Fin.

Thanks for reading! I love constructive criticism, so feel free. I love you, have a fantastic rest of you day!