Sangster vs. Art

Yesterday, the day before, the day before that. Wow. I can’t wait until next semester, when most of my classes will be art classes. Now? Books. Lots and lots of books. Though, last night, I enjoyed a photo shoot. Cheered me right up. Got me out of a week-long funk. It was wonderful, me, covered in film (movie trailers, actually). But, as always, something happened. The film didn’t stick to me. The shoes were half a size too big--they were gorgeous all the same, but that’s besides the point. The battery on my camera went KA-PUT.
I always feel like I’m heinously losing and uphill battle with art. I think of an amazing idea, but it falls to the wayside, and, quoting Metallica, “Nothing Else Matters.” I want to do so much with art. I’d love to be one of those sad, starving artists. Geniuses, but hungry. Silly, I know, but it’s such a romantic idea. Who knows what I’ll end up doing for the rest of my life. If I’ve got to photograph kids lying naked in a teddy bear, at night, I’ll paint. If I’ve got to paint street signs, on the weekends, I’ll grab my old Nikon, and take black and whites of old buildings, developing them in my make shift darkroom that doubles as a bathroom.
I’ve always wondered if amazing, established artists go through these things, too. Un-creative phases, mishaps that ruin the whole project, blue that WON’T MIX WITH YELLOW. I really needed green that day.
I feel like I have some characteristics of an artist. Cliché, but, more or less, I feel I fit the stereotype. I’m absent minded. I’m obsessive. I harbor a deep resentment to the world (that makes no sense, by the way). I have a terrible temper.
BUT
I’m in love with most of the things around me. I find beauty in almost everything I see. I’ll stare at magazines for hours, looking at the pictures. “No, I don’t get this for the articles.” I have my refuge, and it’s art.
Although it’s fickle, temperamental, dense, stupid, beautiful, hateful, resentful, amazing, spiteful, and flawless, I know I’m in love.
Hey, I think it’s a great relationship. If you forget to call Art at 7, it’s still gonna be there at 8, waiting to talk to you.