so two days ago i posted about feeling invisible and thinking about quitting social media because i get no feedback on my art and it all feels utterly pointless.
so that post got 9 “likes” which might not seem like a lot to those of you that get 9 likes a minute, but for me, that is a lot of likes.
but here’s the thing. i still didn’t get any feedback. so i keep wondering if y’all like the idea of my quitting social media & taking my wonky art to the private sector? if that’s what you like. not my art but my quitting art….
and then i start to cry.
seriously, i am starting to be convinced that i am a social experiment in what happens to a neurotic artist who gets minimal feedback.
do i eat a gun muzzle
or start producing amazing art for my pain?
anyhoo. here are a couple more journal-style self-portrait-y things.
i haven’t quit yet….
which is how i feel…invisible.
if i’m on social media for the sake of my art…and i get extremely very little feedback on said art…then why am i on social media when it just seems to contribute to my depression & anxiety?
i am liking doing journal like inkings.
writing & drawing & spilling & splattering.
i’m not sure what i wrote made sense. it was mostly train of thought. randomness. talking to myself.
my approach is kind of that i don’t think anyone is actually paying attention, so i am just seeing what comes out of me. that’s actually pretty much my approach to life. i mean, i feel invisible most the time, so i don’t really worry what anyone thinks of me. you know what they say, there is no such thing as bad publicity.
so on i go.
and my self-portrait is all gunslinger. but no gun.
after i posted it i saw today’s prompt is “fierce.”
i posted this on the inktober group i am in on facebook, i referenced how conflicted i felt about so much color–as if i were channeling the teletubbies…and…nothing.
not one like.
not one comment.
is it me? i put on deodorant…
(actually, not technically deodorant, i use baking soda, coconut oil, and essential oils….)
but you know what i mean.
i would like, at some point before i am dead, to not feel like a complete pariah.
and dusty is coming here to stay for a week. part of me is relieved that there will be another grown up here.
part of me just wants to die because the only relief i get is when the man who helped put me in this fucking situation comes to visit.
mostly, i just feel like crying.
i’m going to go take a shower and cry.
there’s a story behind this. but i don’t know what it is.
that was the 11th. for the 10th i phoned it in once more with a half done inking.
and it is still not finished.
my life is overwhelming.
i am very angry about being alone. about doing this alone. so angry. and depressed. and feeling like this is it. this is the rest of my life. i am essentially alone–but! i am also stuck with dusty in my life. i am stuck with raising four kids mostly by myself while their dad complains that he wants to be more involved and i have to remind myself that it is a trick. their dad is an angler fish dangling “normal family” in front of me and hoping i will take a nibble. because he never actually gets involved even when he can be involved. he doesn’t. and i have to keep reminding myself of that.
which is a lot of fun.
so i’m grumpy and moody and do not feel like doing anything even though i know that doing something would help me to feel better.
just putting pen to paper makes me feel better.
so october 7th i drove the minions through the flatlands of illinois to collect this new member of our homestead:
we left in the morning and did not get home until almost five when poultry has to be fed and sheep watered all while trying to get the new baby to eat (he was pretty pissed off about being taken away from his family–no wonder–and it was a day before we could get him to accept the bottle.) plus i had to relocate the bunnies to a puppy pen so i could use their dog crate for quixote’s “stall” in our sunroom. as well as feeding the minions, collecting eggs, putting poultry away….
so it was after seven before i got a chance to catch my breath.
and i just did not feel like doing inktober. so i phoned it in and used an inking in progress as my seventh day:
which i then finished for the 8th of inktober.
which brings us to yesterday, the ninth. i wasn’t sure what to do. i decided to just do some journal inkings.
my first one came out like this:
and i was all like, “what the fuck, em?” i thought about posting it…but felt really conflicted about it, for some reason.
art for me is a meditation and an exorcism.
what is going on here then?
so i tried again:
and ended up not posting this one either. i was convinced people would hate them and be, like me, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
i want to keep doing inktober–because it is fun for me and keeps me creating….
but i’m not sure i want to share anymore.
it feels like i am putting myself out there…to no avail.
i’m just weird.
a misfit toy.
…a strange lady.