The Horribleness

“You just have to trust your own madness.”

–         Clive Barker

“My most intimate relationship is with my imagination.”

–         Clive Barker

“I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I painted with oils so much I no longer can have it touch my skin. It happens for many reasons, but the main reason was the fact I used to paint in my bedroom during high school and early twenties, the room I might add had no ventilation, not the brightest idea in my life. After a few years of living in a room with drying oil paintings (a little unknown fact about oil paints they can take up to six months to fully dry) and wearing clothes covered in oils, it started to take its toll. I don’t mind the toll it took, and wouldn’t change it for the world. Now when I paint, I just wear gloves.

                I always painted with brushes, you should never use oil paints like finger paints, except for one painting …

                But before I get to the story behind this rip off of German Expressionism I did, let me give you a bit more context to set the scene.

                Back in the day, high school and college, I would fill a sketchbook from cover to cover in under three months. I would draw every day for no less than an hour and paint for an hour before bed. More often than not, I would paint into the wee hours of the night, climb out of my haze filled mind still trying to come back to earth from all the haunting colors, and stroll up to the gas station. There standing outside catching some fresh air and talking to the third shift guy while smoking out minds away. I would dance over the idea of my art.

                I want to be somewhere along the lines of Van Gogh, not the cutting my ear off part, but want to make people feel deeply when they looked at my work. A year before I painted the picture above, I came across Van Gogh’s letters. I poured over them like a mad doctor trying to conquer death, and I fell in love with the man behind those words. I long to understand the man who wrote those words and emotions I couldn’t find in my dark days during those years.

                My younger years were spent trapped in my studio, trying to work over my emotions. I had no idea how to deal with anything I felt during those years. My friends would come by, most of them too high to care what was going on with me and drag out into the world. There we would race around town having an old grant time, and all the while, I long to be back with my paints.

                (Yeah, I was that dude. You could look at me and know I was an artist, but I was more punked out and a bit too emo then pretentious art jerk. Then again, we were all emo back then.)

                My paints were the only thing I cared about and were far better than any of the pills I popped.

(I’m not proud of the stupid moments in my life, but they were my mistake to make. I have learned a lot from them.)

                Anyways, during this time, I started to give my sketchbooks titles like they were novels, and I tried my best to have them flow like a story.

                The sketchbooks were not ever meant to be seen by people. Although I did allow most of my friends to look through them. It wouldn’t be uncommon to walk into my room at the time, find new work hanging on my wall, and a friend of mine digging through my studies. I didn’t mind them seeing the inner working of my mind, and trust me when I say those books were just that, the inner world of my mind.

                While I built the world of my art in my books and painting, I also started to study artists in history. As you might have noticed, Van Gogh was one of the artists on the top of the list, but I started to look into anyone and everyone I could get my hands on. But I would not study Jackson Pollock, I had seen his work in class, and I hate it. I thought it pointless in the timeline of art history. I, like most people, though I do the same thing as him. His painting, which was nothing more than throwing paint on the canvas, took no skill to create.

                So, the days went on, and I came across the book called, Visions of Heaven and Hell by Clive Barker. The horror of his colors and images burned right into my mind, and I went back to the bookstore almost weekly to look at it. I didn’t have the money at the time to buy the book, but I wouldn’t let it get out of my sight. Then either my birthday rolled around, or I sold a painting and was able to buy the book. I study that book every night before bed, and to this day, it is one of my favorite books.

                I started to try to paint like Mr. Barker, but someone else kept coming back to my mind. I hate Pollock, but I couldn’t get away from him. I always told my friends, “If Picasso could do it, then so could I.” Or in this case, if Pollock could do it then so could I.

                I brought several canvases, gathered my supplies, and went outside to make a fool of myself. It turned out painting like Pollock happen to be a bit harder than I thought. The first several painting I tried in his style turn into lovely pools of paints. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong, but I keep trying to get one of his painting to work. (I did make a few painting in the likeness of Pollock, but that is for a different blog.)

                Everything failed the first night I worked on the paintings, and I just started to grow enraged at the puddles of paint. None of my paintings were coming out right. The ones I would try to make look like Mr. Barker had failed too. The ones in the likeness of Pollock had failed even more so. Everything at that moment seems to be falling apart, not just in my art either. My grandfather was sick and dying. The girl I like at the time had thrown herself deeper into the world of drugs. All of my friends were battling their own demons and losing quickly. I was unsure of what I was going to do with my life. I wanted to be an artist –

                My father told me all my life never to give up on my dreams

                But right then and there my dreams seem like a foolish hope. I walk up the gas station took a smoke from my friend there and then went back home. I sat down in front of a blank canvas with my oils paints beside me and finger painted this self-portrait. I poured everything I hate about my life in the paints, much like Dorian Gray.

                Ever since I paint my Gray picture, I had carried it with me. I had hung it in my room where ever I live to remind on how far I come in my life and how I have changed. I can look at those colors and those thick black lines seeing a foolish kid who made them and thank God, I’m no longer that person. The paintings a keepsake for a time long gone, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

Godspeed,

Chase