Worded Musings, Attempted Explanations and General Information Concerning the Artwork
In all truth, I don't know why I draw this man over and over again. It's my comfort zone; it's where I belong. If you had a window you could open and see Heaven, wouldn't you open it over and over again? It's the only way I can touch him.
It could also be a mere vehicle for the development of my art - there's nothing like 'obsession' to get you doing humungous amounts of prac. That's what I thank him for most greatly - the discovery and development of my artwork and style.
On a more simplistic level, I just love him. I love his music, his words, I love his face, his figure, his postures, his smile, his funny dances... I love every single thing he does. And I want to capture it all. I don't want to miss a thing, excuse the lameness of that, but it's true. I've missed a lot (I've missed everything) but I try to remedy that. I want to be him; I want to be able to do everything he does, and by doing all these drawings I suppose I do incorporate him into myself, even if only in memory; even if only because these drawings are all a part of myself and my 'gift'.
Quite often when I'm drawing it's as if I'll suddenly really see what I'm doing, and I'll just think what the hell is this? God, he's beautiful. I love this man. Things along those lines. Sometimes I'll just think, jeez, who is this? What am I doing? And sometimes he's just so glorious I feel sick, or cry - sometimes it's the smallest things - a shining on his iris, one little smile-line, a curl in his hair - and I'm suddenly full of tears. Sometimes it's the things I learn about him - he's got an assymmetrical nose, oh that line does that when he smiles; so his eyelids curve that way when they're shut - that are touching. What do you make of that? What am I supposed to make of that? I don't do it on purpose! Oh yeah, everyone pity me please - I'm in damn love!?! Yeah right!
Even so, amongst the confusion, I can be so free in this. I can do whatever I like, and I mean whatever I like, with my artwork. Once the ability is there, once it's enough developed, you can take it up to however many levels you like. I swear, my friends, you can fly sometimes. I wonder if he ever feels like that when he's singing or writing - if suddenly it's like something within is taking off and that's when you get your wings; that's what the damn gift of it is. I mean, you can draw, it's no big deal, right? Lots of people can. But can you fly on that ability - can you be FREE? because that's what we all want. It's what I want, and only one thing can bring that to me. That's why I draw him too.
Okay, what do I mean by that? I don't know. I just hope you feel what I mean... I'm not one for revelationary wording. Sometimes when I draw him, when it's working, it's like I'm not doing it at all. Not me. Something else in my brain, my hands, my eyes, is drawing and the rest of me is but sleeping, and when I wake, there it is - I've drawn something good.
I can't bypass the fact that I want him to be near me, and I draw because of that too. I can't sleep without surrounding myself with him (forgive the personification please); I feel comforted just to have him around. Don't get the idea I became suicidal when I found out he was married or anything - it's not that. He just makes me feel so great, so beautiful, and special, like I can do anything in the world because he can. Because my artwork is him and he can do anything, in that I can do anything I want. Does that make sense? So, naturally, I want to surround myself with him always, I want to tattoo his portrait into my flesh, I want to go nuts with my charcoals and cover every wall of this house with him. I can't do some of that, so I do what I can. I am trying so hard to make sense.
Back to the subject of me being able to do anything - I mean to him or with him or about him... I hate him too, you know, and that's unjustified and unfair, but I can't help it. You can't help how you feel, you can help how you act I suppose, but art is feeling, not acting. So all this misplaced hate that I FEEL can be saved for my artwork and never be ACTED upon. For gods' sake I would never hurt him - I'd sooner die! - I would never blindfold him and put him in a glass case (though that would be interesting...); I would never wish him to be half as sad as I make him look sometimes. I don't want to find sadness in his eyes when he smiles; I don't want to slash him up with colours and anger and spontaneity. The fact that that stuff comes out in my artwork means something, wouldn't you agree? He's just so damn under my skin - I can't get him outta me - and I have to do something with that, else I'll go mad.
I'm sure Sigmund Freud would have more to say on the matter, and I would be interested to hear too, but I don't like to think about that. It's disturbing even though it may be true. Some people search for truth in their work. I don't. I search for ultimate perfection, extraordinary bliss. I thought I wanted truth, once, and when I got it I hated it. I wish almost every single day that I could be that delusional optimist again - maybe I was crazy, but I was elated; maybe I was stupid, but I was in Idiot Heaven. But, like Lady Bracknell says of ignorance, I can't remember the exact wording, but once it's touched it's forever tarnished. There - I ruined it, I was a fool.
Pessimists are ultimately just realists; optimists are not only hopeful, but often delusional. Do you think that matters? Don't we all seek happiness at all costs? Is madness that bad, if it makes you happy? Man, I'm on the Crazy wagon if it's the happy one, but I tarnished forever that possibility by searching for damn Truth.
This may all be kind of freaky, especially if you know me, but that doesn't matter either. If you know me, you probably already know. I've probably said all this to you a hundred times. I know a lot of people don't understand it, but I can admit this now! Thirty-seven years is a long, long time! And to save you the maths, that makes me born in 1985, seventeen - it's thirty-seven years that are between me and Steven. And believe me - I've heard all the idiot comments: "Isn't he a bit old?", "Hey, he's old enough to be your father/grandfather" (I've had both variations); "He's the ugliest man I've ever seen/that ever lived", "You have the worst taste - are you blind?"... and who's being blind then? Who's blind enough not to notice that beautiful things are hardly ever universally attributed that? And most of the people that say those things to me would be too stupid to understand all the reasons I've tried to explain here, so I don't really bother.
We can sit around philosophizing forever, about Freud and the real reasons I draw Mr S. Victor Tallarico, but hey - if your driving force was a record, wouldn't you wanna hear it? JUST PUSH PLAY, honey, don't wait for the right moment or day! Hope is no use if you believe in Fate; you don't know what music's gonna come out of those speakers; we all have our obsessions and most of us probably don't know why. We're all here 'coz we're not all there! And if that record turns out to be an Aerosmith one, well, just jump on the wagon. It's not so bad.
Much love,
L.
