It felt pretty good. I should do this more often. Even so, there’s a tiny sliver of subtle dissatisfaction. The one that says, “Mayhaps you should finish that book.” I’m gonna willfully ignore that cynical suggestion today. I worked hard, I kept honest, I done good; writing here is my version of the after work beer.
It’s a self portrait. The first I’ve done in years. Well, one that’s not narrating a silly scene. It’s all pencil, it’s five hours, and it’s surprisingly accurate. For those who aren’t kn the know, self portraits are pretty tough. I’m impressed I can do stuff like that sometimes. Especially when I haven’t been actively drawring for a handful of months.
I spend some time thinking about “success” and what it means to me. The desire to become an art icon seems wanton and distasteful. Suddenly, being small potatoes is not only acceptable but desirable. There was a time when the want for money or notoriety were perceived as meaningful, much less so nowadays. I must be getting older.
No, I don’t have the obsessive workaholic in me to make oodles of money or whore for attention. I don’t want them either. I like my quiet time, the occasional quiet moments. Strange, but getting a modest job that pays the bills sounds nice. Being a weekend warrior with art, less demanding and less insistent.
I do cling to one ambition, though. I want to giveback. Leaving the world better by the time I leave the world, that sounds like a worthwhile “success.”