After wandering the aisles of a local art supply store for the better side of an hour, I left with only a fresh supply of the most pitch black ink and an oversized pad of crisp, white drawing paper tucked under my arm. (Why a place that carries art supplies doesn't carry bags big enough to handle oversized media is beyond me, but I didn't care because I'm always happy after an art supply buy.)
I made a short stop at one of the campus bodega-equivalents for a drink and as soon as I hit the sidewalk, a sudden question was fired over my right shoulder and seized my attention. I turned around and recognized the inquirer, holding up the corner near the entrance, as one of Ann Arbor's displaced.
-Hey, man. You an artist? I'd never been asked so pointedly before.
-Yeah... a lil bit. I replied without missing a beat, half-smiling.
-Can I see? he asked, raising his eyebrows with a referential nod toward my drawing pad.
-Aw, sorry. Just bought this. Next time though!
-Ohhh, well alright. Take care.
And I was off on my way. In no more than a few seconds, and in so few words, I experienced a Winnfieldian moment of clarity - that yeah, goddamnit - I am an artist. To paraphrase another Black screen figure, Winston Zeddemore, I have the tools; I have the talent... But what do you call an artist with (what I consider to be) a really weak body of work? I don't know... maybe I'm just too hung up on my perceived importance of being prolific, but a greater output is goal nonetheless. It's publish or perish in academia and so it seems to go with us creative types. I don't really plan on going anywhere but into the hearts and minds of more people.
So I turn to you, dear reader -- I invite you to prime my pump. I think it's the Observable that separates Artist from Dreamer and I think I've been asleep long enough.
What would you like to read about?
What would you like to see?
Let me take your picture!
All things considered!
And go!
