Walk in the Woods

Nik Curfman 9/6/23 Nik Curfman 9/6/23

Vol IV: #17 I Laughed, And It Was Good

So…yesterday I sobbed like a child regarding my attempts to improve my drawing skills. (And maybe part of my process includes public self-embarrassment?) But, when I sat down to practice my shapes and go through my lesson, something awesome happened. I had fun. Yeah, exactly.

The project for the day was to draw three individual tee cups, each on a saucer. The goal was to explore different types of lines. And I started slowly, unsure of what to do. After, I finished my base drawing of general shapes and lines, I tapped my pencil on the pad, then began to draw quick horizontal lines. Within five minutes I began to laugh, and that’s when I felt a new feeling. This is fun, I thought. And, oh man, did I need that. On the second tea cup, I started with dots that became something more like vines or thick hairs. Not sure why anyone would want a creepy, hairy tea cup, but it made me laugh all the same. Then I decided to try and create a realistic tea cup and I labeled it “perfection.” It was awful and I laughed once more.

Invigorated, I finished the day by laying a foundation for a new landscape drawing, one of olives trees lining a path. The lines and shapes poured out of my pencil and I was found a good place to stop.

What a turn around. Can’t wait to get back at it today.

Nik Curfman 8/21/23 Nik Curfman 8/21/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 7.

Part seven of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

Gary immediately began to setup to paint. As he began to pull paints and thinner from his bag, Mary was struck by a new terror. How was this going to work, she wondered. And within seconds she felt herself go heavy under the wait of worry and fear. Her thoughts and fears drowned out whatever Gary thought and she barely noticed when he’d finished getting ready. She steadied herself in time to force a smile. “Ready?” she squeaked in the most pleasant tone she could produce.

“As I’ll ever be,” Gary mumbled.

Mary could see his thoughts again and prayed another prayer.

“What should we paint?” she asked.

“How about the scene this morning from the front window of the bodega, you seem to love it. Right?”

Mary felt the sarcasm yet ignored it. Best to plow ahead, she resolved.

“Yes. Let’s paint. I need you to think about what you saw and felt, again. So, I can see it.”

Without trying and in a flash, Gary envisioned the rush and life he observed every morning, the honk of yellow taxis, the ever present jack hammer, old ladies hauling metal carts to the grocery store, children zipping between zombie like commuters, marching toward the train station, and the occasional morning jogger. Mary saw it all and understood why it enthralled him so.

“Ok, let’s go to work.” she said with great confidence.

Awkwardly, Gary grasped Mary by the handle, then set her back down.

“Trust me, I’m the only brush you need.”

“Well see.”

Then Gary firmly grabbed Mary once more and dipped her into liquid white and began to cover the canvas.

***

Over the next two hours, Gary and Mary jostled and argued and cut-in lines, mixed hues, layered paints, reworked faces, and added highlights. And when they were finished Gary stood up silently and marched out of the room. For her part, Mary was exhausted but content. She took one last long glance at the painting and dozed off.

***

Gary froze as he entered the studio. The two from earlier over around the painting, heads askew and pointing to various splotches of paint. He took a breath and moved to join them. And as he approached the back corner, the two turned to him.

“You paint this?”asked the colorful Latina.

“Yes. Just now.”

“How did you do that, bro?” inquired the tiny black man, his hand held open, palm up.

“Do what?”

“That,” and this time he pointed to the cascading colors of the people as they moved across the canvas.

“Yeah. It’s as though the the people are under water, but not. They’re rippling across or something,” added the lady. “It’s fascinating. I can’t stop staring.”

Gary didn’t know how to answer and he looked down at Mary hoping for a sign she was listening. For indeed Mary was listening and happy. And when she saw Gary’s concern, she winked at him.

“This street corner is what I saw this morning on my way to class today. People talk about the energy of New York. I wanted to show it.”

After a few more questions, proper introductions and photos, Gary began to pack. The Maria took the hint and went back to work. Wallace continued to pester Gary with questions. He followed Gary to the drying rack and back, stooped when Gary bent over to pick up his bag, and straightened as Gary shoveled the last of his supplies into the backpack- lingering over the two inch brush still on the easel. Gary hoped Mary was till reading his mind, and thought he heard a low, faint laugh a few seconds later.

Finally, exhaustion got the better of the man from south Georgia and he interrupted Wallace mid question, “It was really nice to meet you Wallace but I gotta go. Do you work in here a lot?”

Wallace looked disappointed, but answered the question, “Yeah bro. Everyday.”

“Good. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gary responded, his hand out for a shake.

Wallace’s face lightened and he shook Gary’s hand. “Yeah bro. See you tomorrow.”

Gary grinned to himself and grabbed the paint brush, which he put into a side pocket of his bag, and started for the door. Wallace returned to his seat and found his headphones. And as Gary reached the thresh hold, Wallace called to him one more time.

“One thing bro, you can’t be talking on the phone in here. It’s distracting. Keep ya’ girl outside. Cool?”

A smirk filtered out of Gary.

“Cool. I can do that. My bad.”

“No worries bro. See ya’ tomorrow.”

THE END

Nik Curfman 8/17/23 Nik Curfman 8/17/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 6.

Part six of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

Gary hadn’t considered Mary’s perspective on all this, but thought proper to do so. Mary warmed as Gary worked his way through his new reality.

“You said you know your purpose, what is that?” Gary finally asked.

“My purpose?” she answered with a smile. “To create. I’m a brush and I need to get my bristles into some paint. Soon I hope.”

Gary loved the simplicity of the answer. How wonderful to be so sure and confident, he concluded.

Then Mary continued, “Gary, I believe I need you, that we are meant to work together. I need you and you need me.”

And suddenly, the mood collapsed. The words ‘you need me’ pricked Gary’s mind. He didn’t need anyone, he thought. The shift alarmed Mary as she saw the twist growing in his mind. And, she hurried to undo it.

“Your creative process brought me to life, this morning in Brooklyn. The wonder in your thoughts called to me, as you watched the hurry and madness of the train station and wanted to capture it. ”

Gary leaned back into his chair and stared at the floor. He never considered an artistic partner before and wasn’t sure he needed one, and his heart became cold toward Mary. She saw a sadness deep in him, and lonely thoughts rose from his depths. And now plans began to take shape, awful plans. Then he looked at her with a clenched jaw and stone cold eyes. Mary was frightened and silently began to ask for help.

“If you’re going to throw me away or toss me in the river,” she began. “Why not give us a chance? One painting, then you may do as you like.”

The question caught Gary pulled him from the slop. He’d spent the last minutes contemplating how to get rid of Mary, but a speck of curiosity changed everything.

“Ok, Mary. One painting.”

Nik Curfman 8/16/23 Nik Curfman 8/16/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 5.

Part five of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

He set Mary on the table in front of him and waited. If not for the giggles emanating from his hand, he’d assume it was an ordinary two inch oil brush- hog’s hair bristles, metal ferrule, and wooden handle.

“Oh thank you so very much,” she said in a soothing way that calmed the aspiring painter to his core.

“Will you set me up? I’d like to see your face.”

The request confused Gary as he saw no noticeable face, no eyes or mouth, or ears, but he acted without hestiation.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

And as Mary spoke, Gary noticed the tiniest moving lines across the face of the ferrule, and a pair of eyes where the ferrule was fastened to the handle.

"You’re welcome,” Gary managed to choke out as he stared at Mary’s metallic face.

“Yes. This is my face. I suppose it’s odd to you.”

“This whole situation is not normal, Mary.”

And as the words left his tongue, Gary remembered where he was. And he quickly glanced over to where the other artists were seated. The black man was gone, but the hefty lady was still face deep in a drawing. What ever was happening, was only happening between Gary and Mary. Again, he collected himself.

“Where are your ears?” he whispered.

“I don’t quite know, but I can obviously hear you. I think. Or maybe I can only perceive your thoughts.”

“Oh no. That’s not good.”

“How come?'“

“I think a lot of things and some of them are not meant for anyone but me.”

“May I assume all people are like this?”

“Yes, Mary. All humans like me think thoughts they don’t want anyone to know or perceive.”

“Well, then. That’s something to consider.”

The reality of Mary as Mindreader weighed on Gary. And Mary knew it. As a few moments of silence filled the room, she decided it best to continue to answer his questions. “What else would you like to know?” she prodded.

The mere question caused Gary to burst into laughter. Did a paint brush really just say that? And he laughed again. Mary did not to answer Gary’s thoughts, though she wanted to. Gary needed his mind to be a safe place, and so she decided let him be.

After a pause to collect himself, Gary asked, “How…I mean, what are you? Are you alive? Am I going insane? Why?”

Mary could see how her presence caused Gary great confusion, yet she also sensed his curiosity, a more noble human trait than fear.

“Gary, all I know is I heard your thoughts earlier today on the train. It was like I was awakened from a deep sleep. And I knew what I was, who I was, and what my purpose is. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. So, I decided to talk to you if I could. I believe you thought I was prank or mental trick.”

“Indeed, I thought someone was messing with me,” Gary offered.

Again, Mary waited for Gary to speak rather than answer his thoughts which were complex and weighed with emotion. And, she decided on a different tact.

“You know Gary, I’m new here too.”

Nik Curfman 8/15/23 Nik Curfman 8/15/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 4.

Part four of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

Gary was not himself the rest of the morning. He entered the wrong classroom for figure drawing and promptly hurried out when the instructor said,”welcome to advanced watercolor, bodies of water and skyscapes.” Then Gary’s embarrassment doubled when the figure drawing instructor- a well groomed and slender white man in black jeans, a navy blue pullover, and penny loafers- eyed him for being late. And unlike oil painting, this class got down to business within minutes. Unprepared, Gary scrambled to find his sketch pad and pencils as a large, balding still very hairy, middle-aged man disrobed in the middle of the room.

After lunch, Gary spent his free period in a studio meant for students working on projects. As it was the first day of class, only two industrious students were at work when he slipped into the room, one small black man about Gary’s age and a large latino lady sporting orange and green running shoes and hot pink leggings. Headphoned and focused, both artists focused on their work. The quiet suited Gary and he slumped into a red chair in the far corner of the room.

And then, for the third time that day, Gary heard the mumbles. And they clearly came from his backpack.

Ok, let’s do this, he thought. At first he didn’t know what to do. Then Gary unzipped the smallest pocket first. He reached in and pulled out a few scraps of newsprint- used for drawing practice- and his pencil sharpener. Next, he rummaged through the next pocket, larger than the first and mostly empty. Gary sat back in his chair for a moment before he heard it again.

“Muh, meh, meah,” responded the mumbler.

Instantly, Gary felt his heart in the throat and was more aware of his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. He hesitated before opening the last and largest compartment of his backpack. Part of Gary wanted the mumbler to speak again and part of him wanted the prank to resolve itself. After a beat, he turned his ahead as though what lay inside might attack him and slowly pulled the zipper up one side of the pack across the top and down the other side. He did not reach inside but sat afraid of what was to come.

“I won’t bite, Gary. I’m in here.” said a distinctly female voice.

This is crazy, Gary admitted. My backpack is talking to me.

“Not your backpack. I’m a paint brush. My name’s Mary,” the voice responded.

Gary didn’t know if he should cry or run, but he remained frozen to his seat.

“You’re not crazy Gary,” the voice continued from inside the backpack. “I assume you don’t know many talking paint brushes, do you?”

“N-no,” He finally stuttered.

“Ah. Well that makes sense. May I make a request?”

Gary slowly began to find humor in the moment, relieved the by the gentle voice. This will make one hell of a story for a therapist, he mused.

“A therapist? Why a therapist?” she responded as though reading his thoughts.

Giving into the situation, Gary finally found his courage and answered,”First, what’s your request? And two, either I’m losing my shit, or…I’m losing my shit.”

“I can assure you Gary, I’m real. And you are not losing your wits or sanity.”

“Solid,” Gary quipped sarcastically. “Good to know.”

“As for my request, can you take me out of your backpack? It’s dark in here and I much prefer the light like I experienced earlier today.”

“Right, that was you who said ‘thank you’ earlier today.”

“Yes. I am quite polite.”

Then Gary reached into the darkness and fumbled around until he heard laughter and giggling.

“That’s me Gary. You have me.”

And with that, Gary Mellmack met his paint brush, face to face.

Nik Curfman 8/11/23 Nik Curfman 8/11/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 3.

Part three of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

As the F train neared Gary’s stop, the commuters began to give way to students and tourists, the dullness replaced by anticipation and excitement. And as he did every morning regardless of conditions, Gary climbed the 57th Street steps and headed north to Central Park. The routine gave him the opportunity to experience the gradual progression of the seasons through the lens of the Park. And in early June, the young light green leaves of the Maples and Elms were now giving way to the darker deep green of summer. In fact, the whole park appeared to be full of life and contrasting color, not to mention artists, performers, and excited visitors. From a bench near the Dip Archway, Gary liked to watch tourist snap selfies and reenact various movies scenes shot in front of it. And now it was 7:30 am, and Gary need to head back down 7th Avenue to class. Happy with his choices and in the moment, he stood, stretched his legs a bit and hurried back down the sidewalk to art school.

The classroom was half-full when Gary walked through the door and quickly scanned to see if he knew any of the other students. And, other than some familiar faces, the class of devoid of anyone Gary would call a friend. Then he chose an easel on the right side of the room near the back and began to unpack. On the ledge of the easel he placed his paints, thinner, cleaner, and finally his brushes. And as he set them down he heard a distinct and clear “thank you!” Not believing what he perceived Gary looked up, then around him. The pink-haired woman to his left him was glued to her phone and no one was behind him.

The previous episodes in the bodega and on the train were easily dismissed, but now Gary was hearing full words. And it disturbed him. He began to sink into his anxiety and wondered if he was losing his mind. His mother was drug counselor and he knew about auditory hallucinations- one of the many reasons he avoided alcohol and drugs. (That, and the countless horror stories his mother told around the dinner table, and at parties, and every time she pleased.) The sharpe voice of the instructor pulled Gary out of his thoughts and back into the room. “Everyone, I’m Carol Townsend and this is Basic of Oil Painting,” boomed a tall yet wide woman with curly black hair. And instantly, Gary forgot his phobia.

Over the next hour, Ms Townsend took roll, reviewed her syllabus, and answered questions. Gary’s thoughts drifted and circled back to the voice that followed him from Brooklyn to class. Then Gary looked up to notice Ms. Townsend scribbling away on the whiteboard and he tuned into her voice, something about mixing paints and mediums and canvas prep. Of course we wouldn’t paint today he nearly said aloud. He’d been the only student to unpack his tools and paints. And he felt embarrassed at being too eager. After another hour, Gary packed up and shuffled out the of classroom to regroup and mentally prepare for his figure drawing class.

Nik Curfman 8/9/23 Nik Curfman 8/9/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 2.

Part two of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

Of course, Gary didn’t know his life would change on a warm June morning. How could he? No one knows when fate will step into our lives- the last time we play in street with our childhood friends, the last ‘I love you’ to a parent, or meet a being who will say and do what we can’t. All any of us can do is what Gary did: put ourselves in the best position to receive what fate has has to offer. And, when Gary grabbed his navy blue backpack and loaded it with clean paint brushes and tubes of red, blue, and yellow oil paint, he thrust himself squarely into the path of his destiny.

To Gary, the morning was as normal as he came to expect of south Brooklyn. The sidewalk was mad as commuters dashed up and down 7th Avenue and Gary weaved his way through the mass to his favorite bodega for an egg and bacon sandwich. After paying for his sandwich, he ate his breakfast inside the shop while staring at passersby. Nothing in south Georgia compared to the pace and hustle of the City in the morning and every morning Gary took a moment to observe the movement and chaos as though it was his first encounter with it. This city is hectic and mesmerizing he thought and wondered how to capture such feelings on canvas. Just then Gary heard a faint muffled voice behind him and when he turned to see who was there, he saw no one other than the usual cooks and customers going about there predictable transactions, then he looked at his phone. Time to go he thought.

A beat later Gary climbed the steps to the F Train headed to Manhattan and slipped his headphones over his ears. He smiled as he took out his phone and pretended to pick a playlist. Gary loved what his headphones said to the world, that he wanted to be left alone and he used this to his advantage on his ride to school. The headphones gave him the ability to observe his fellow commuters without being disturbed or questioned. When the train arrived, Gary worked his way through the passengers already on board to spot in the corner at the back of the compartment, then he scanned the car for anything worth watching.

At the East Broadway stop, a mother and two young girls stepped onto the train and they caught Gary’s attention. Most of the other commuters were glued to their phones or trying to catch a few bits of rest before work, but now as the train entered Manhattan life was at work on the train. The two girls laughed and giggled though Gary could only speculate as to why. All he knew was their world was small and uncomplicated, and he hoped it would stay that way as long as possible. And then Gary went into his own world where he was safe and uncomplicated. And he thought about the world of a child and he glanced up to notice the contrast of the two spark plugs opposite everyone else on the train.

How do I capture childlike wonder with paint he asked himself. And then, for a second time that morning, he heard a muffled voice behind him. Startled, Gary spun around, bumping his backpack into the curly haired man to his right. The quick movement drew a hard look from the confused gentleman, and Gary lowered his head in retreat. Of course, Gary saw no one. And had he thought for a second, he knew their was nothing behind him but the bland walls of the train. He was in the corner for Pete’s sake. Bewildered, Gary found humor in the confusion and laughed quietly to himself. The mother and children exited the train a few stops later and the car returned to a state of quiet commuting.

Nik Curfman 7/22/23 Nik Curfman 7/22/23

Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 1.

Part one of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.

The squeal of the 5:33 F train finally peeled Gary out of bed after many previous attempts. Before answering the call of nature, he stopped to gaze out his apartment window at the purple sky then checked digital clock on the lamp stand beside his bed. Typical, he thought. 5:38 AM. Always late. And as he did his business in the toilet, Gary thought about that clock, how it was a thoughtful gift from his mother but somewhat useless now that he lived next to a line that never stops. Neither the apartment ad or property manager mentioned the constant, timely screeches or enduring fumes or the shouts and car horns meant for people dashing through traffic to catch the train. Then Gary thought better of his clock. I won’t live here forever, he concluded. Indeed, he was and intended to be a part-time resident of the city that never sleeps. It was a promise he’d made to his thoughtful worried mother.

Gary Mellmack moved to Brooklyn to pursue his life long dream of becoming a painter. Better said, he moved to New York City to pursue becoming an artist. He chose to live in Brooklyn because is was affordable, if one may call it so, and the F train has a stop one block from the The Art Students League campus just south of Central Park. After years of meaningless sales jobs and severe lack of dating success, he decided to do the one thing he really wanted to do. His mother was not surprised or amused, but she didn’t stand in his way. If Gary wanted to live in a cramped apartment and draw apples for a year or two, so be it. Though she preferred he remain in south Georgia and fill a house with grandkids.

A few close friends had questioned why Gary wanted to leave, wasn’t he being cliche or couldn’t he do the same via online courses. No need to blow his savings living in the most expensive city in America, right? In the end, as all good friends do, they stopped objecting Gary’s choice and began to plan visits, as all good friends do, when they have a buddy living in New York.

Today was the first day of the summer session and Gary was excited. He’d spent the fall and spring sketching fruit and nude models and learning color theory. But today, he’d move on toward his ultimate goal of being a painter, a serious painter. And as he laced up his grimy yet comfortable red walking shoes, Gary let a hope rise in his heart. Little did he know that today would be more than he could ever hoped or imagined. How could he? No one is prepared for fate, for a blessing beyond comprehension, all any one can do is go to work and give destiny a chance to find us. And that’s what Gary did by moving to Brooklyn for today he’d meet her.

Nik Curfman 4/13/23 Nik Curfman 4/13/23

Abstract: Resurrection

A poem, about returning to the love and joy of art.

The boy sat and scribbled and felt a joy inside him.

He played and experimented with the colors and lines,

and knew not of the world or judgment or fear.

And maybe, as is said, he had talent or something akin to it.

Perhaps he was average.

But on the carpet, without perspective or worry,

the child was content and loved his life without need or a care.

And then, someone said he had a talent,

giving birth to expectation, a burden yoked to his back.

And the scribbles had to be something,

and the scribbles of others were better than his,

and the boy lost the fun of color and lines amid the throng of demands.

Eventually, while still young, he set down his colors and gave up scribbling,

to be a man.

And the young one became a man, and the man an older man,

and now scribbles and lines were only meant to be hobbies.

But not this man.

Not this older man with greying hair and cheap drug-store glasses.

He decided to go back to scribbling, and fun,

and all the joy lost many years ago.

Nik Curfman 7/21/21 Nik Curfman 7/21/21

Vol II: #6 The Cliche But Real, Dog Days of Summer

What’s left of the Dog Days of Summer is my opportunity to establish my artistic practice. I don’t have the distraction of a heavy social calendar or career demands. Art is important to me, to my life. When I start dating that woman it’s something I want her to know and experience. To date, I have not done a proper job communicating or showing as much. Now is my chance to set the tone for the rest of my life.

Historically, this time of year, late July through August, is my least favorite part of the year. The weather is hot and dusty, and friends are off on vacation. Additionally, this part of summer lacks a holiday or noteworthy event. I feel like I’m sitting in a warm airplane, sweat on my back, circling the runway. And, it’ll be another six weeks before we land. It’s a perfect test of the mental and emotional health I have developed since last summer. What will I do to pass the time? It’s a gift, after all. What if I meet my wife in the next few months? I’ll look back at this time as the last true alone time of my life. I want it to count for something.

I see a trap in my thinking and have the wisdom to sidestep it. What I do not want to do is set some hardcore goals as a means to judge the coming weeks. I do have a few targets in my mind, but they mostly involve showing up to the tasks, not the quality of the work. (Quality comes after we decide to do a thing. I’m still in the “I need to do this every day” phase in some areas.)

My blog remains a constant encouragement and source of inspiration. I’m thrilled I completed my first goal, as well as to the changes I made to my writing schedule for year two. I can see the progress when I read back through older posts. I know I need to take the same approach to my artistic endeavors. Today isn’t about being a master artist, but I can take one step closer. Same for tomorrow.

I write about this process to remind myself of what I need to do. It’s still a mental battle to put my pencil to the sketch paper. Once I do, I’m ready to proceed. But, on some days, it’s hard to get there. I am happy to see where I am as a writer, and I whisper to myself, “where will you be in a year if you draw every day for a year?” My lips form a smile and betray the answer of my heart, “I’ll be 10x the artist I am today, on my way to where I want to be.”

What’s left of the Dog Days of Summer is my opportunity to establish my artistic practice. I don’t have the distraction of a heavy social calendar or career demands. Art is important to me, to my life. When I start dating that woman it’s something I want her to know and experience. To date, I have not done a proper job communicating or showing as much. Now is my chance to set the tone for the rest of my life.

Nik Curfman 2/10/21 Nik Curfman 2/10/21

Abstract: My Audience Of One

Then He takes my scribbles and sticks,

Using one of the many magnets on the big ass fridge next to the Throne,

And places my childish creation where everyone will see.

He’s my audience of One.

(There’s a sad time,

Between being an innocent boy and a guilty man,

When a young soul is crushed from who it is,

Into the mold of what it should be.

When scribbles on paper are no longer a source of joy,

When the lines are critiqued,

And the shading is judged.

The room of joy, the art room, becomes a lab.

Imagination replaced by standard production.

Each product held against the rest.

Never of its own.)

The judges are never louder than when I’m alone.

Years churn,

Attempts are made.

New tubes of paint lay unused,

And rasps turn to rust.

A thousand inspirations forever unseen, forever vanished into eternity.

I feel too unworthy to try, and condemned in my waste of what could be.

Does a cave of abandonment exist,

Free of the court and galley,

The lab and the showroom floor?

Where it’s just me?

Yes.

It’s called the Throne Room.

It’s bright and lined with white columns.

At the far end is where He is.

And big ass refrigerator.

That big ass refrigerator next to the seat where He sits,

It’s covered with magnets.

And He’s waiting while I work.

He’s waiting to smile and pat me on the head.

He’s waiting to say “well done son, I know where this is going.”

Then He takes my scribbles and sticks,

Using one of the many magnets on the big ass fridge next to where He sits,

And places my childish creation where everyone will see.

He’s my audience of One.

The only one that matters to me.

Like this blog? Share it with people you love.

Nik Curfman 10/20/20 Nik Curfman 10/20/20

Daily Journal: #93 Forging an Artist

I am very content in knowing I’ve “done something” over the last month. It might not be much or particularly note-worthy, but the half a dozen small oil pastel drawings and ten sketches represent as much or more as I would’ve completed in previous years. When I lay down my self scrutiny, I see the progress I want.

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A month ago, I wrote a post in celebration of my first completed art piece since 1999. I was genuinely thrilled to finish the painting, and… I have done very little in the aftermath. (That’s not entirely true. I have completed half a dozen small works and a series of sketches I rather enjoy.) I planned to begin another painting, of a leaf falling into a puddle, but haven’t moved to do it. While I am armed with a bevy of excuses - I traveled, my marketing business picked up, my supplies were stolen (true story), the sun wasn’t shining on the north side of the tree stump- I cannot let myself settle back into “wanting to be an artist.” I have to step forward into what comes.

The Money Problem

My contending issue is I compare myself to a fantasy of what I should be. It’s not fair to myself. I drift into dangerous territory by imagining a future where I am a professional artist. I envision my works sold in galleries and developing a following. It’s a dangerous trap because this is where I find motivation, in the money. If I am a successful artist, I can be a successful husband. But, what if the money never comes? Would I put my creativity on the shelf?

No, I can’t put being a creator on the shelf, so I have to disconnect it from fantasies associated with future riches. The problem then becomes “what’s the rush?” As my day fills up with business meetings and projects we find a major pitfall of my life. In the absence of financial reward, I have to find new sources of inspiration and determination. It’s easy to grow and change and produce when we believe in a tangible benefit, but what are we when it’s gone?

Historically, money is not my motivator. When I mentally experiment with what it would be to be rich, I literally get board. My life becomes one of the countless games in the App Store- dull and repetitive. And, while I do not embrace poverty, I no longer wish to be rich. I can’t. Seems boring. If I find one day my financial decisions are measured as wealthy, so be it, but I can’t run after God and money.

And yet…I worry about money. I worry I won’t have enough of it for my future wife and family. This is a thought I’ve internalized for decades. Coupled with my inability to dedicate myself to life-sucking careers, I end up being a man terrified of being a poor leader without a way to fix it. Money isn’t everything, but poverty sucks.

(This is where showing up in the fog and going to work counts. F-ck the outcome.)

Progress is Progress

This creative year was suppose to be about doing, experimenting, and producing regardless of the outcome. And, as usual, as I type I am to see more clearly so the issues I battle.

The money/family fear is real, and something to be given to the Lord. Some of my most spectacular failures came when I tried to control my life. Another issue is trying to project the future. All of imaginings have been wrong, might as well keep doing.

Lastly, I still battle the quality of my work. I want to be accepted and esteemed. And the only way I’ll get better is to create, learn, grow, evolve, and create some more. (I’m being insanely vulnerable right now. LOL. Makes me a bit scared for anyone to read this, but I’m being honest. At my worst I am insecure and long for the acceptance of others. My person hamster wheel.)

Randomly last night this video played as I let YouTube run. I like this channel (Wheezy News), mainly because the creator, Craig, is my age and conducts experiments I find interesting- like 30 Days without social media or 30 Days as a Vegan. Any who, in this video he explains his perspective on being a creative and it’s very refreshing. He seems almost dispassionate about his work, and I know he isn’t. Wisely, he says not to linger over a project, keep going.

As he talked about his perspective, I felt the a weight lift from my mind. I’ve made being an artist a canyon to cross rather than a journey to enjoy and explore. I took something that is suppose to feed my soul and made demands on it, loading it down with the burden of expectation.

It’s funny how the Lord can encourage me, who he uses, and when. I’m fairly certain my friend Craig is not a believer, but that’s ok. His words are still wise, and what I needed. I suspect I will continue to battle expectations. It’s ok. I’m learning. I’m proud of myself for sticking with it- it being Jesus AND loving myself. I can’t properly love myself without exercising my creativity.

Progress is easier when I have grace for myself. It makes the low moments short and not so low. Thank you Lord.