I used one of the frames I got the other day for my most CONTROVERSIAL(!) painting – Toilet Humor. When I shared a photo of that, I got one particularly succinct response: “Crap.”
“Toilet Humor.” 11/10/12. My THIRD EVER non-assigned drawing or painting.
That (I think) is fair. Sort of. As a standalone image, it kinda screams, “look at me!” and (arguably) little else.I added a link to its entry on my website, with the statement I had written. That’ll clear this all up!
My critic’s response: “Still crap.”
Come on!
I guess I understand but, at that point, I no longer thought it was fair. I said as much and added that it’s clearly something I put a lot of time and thought into it. She said it’s contrived. In a sense, that’s true. It wasn’t natural; it took a lot of strain and effort, not because it was bullshit but because it’s difficult and scary to work with and write about something that’s got such potential to hurt (or at least offend). And that’s especially true when your audience is online. Truth be told, it even makes me so uncomfortable that (as tempted as I was) it took a little while to compel myself to actually re-read the statement. There’s nothing easy about “Toilet Humor.” And if it’s insulting to my critic’s intelligence (as I was also told) she must be a whole lot smarter than I am.
The point I’m really getting at [I have one, I swear!] is that, while I absolutely stand by the piece, it isworth mentioning that it’s one of my very first; is totally unlike the stuff I paint these days; and that that’s (I think) both good and bad. On the one hand, “rich kids care about politics”; I’m too caught up in my own nonsense to wanna make any kinda statement beyond my “artist’s statements,” e.g. “Today I threw an emotional shit fit and then painted a bunch of funny faces about it!” [My regular “go-to” when I wanna make fun of myself and my art. Pretty spot on, right!?]
I poke fun but that part of my process is really important to me, I’m glad I do it, and I need to do it. But the value of work like “Toilet Humor” is that it forces me outside my comfort zone and (I don’t think) that’s ever a bad thing. And I don’t mean to say that I’m tackling issues; I wasn’t off on any irrelevant/diversionary social or political rants. Like most of what I do, it’s thoroughly personal.
Which brings me to my piece from today, ”Shit Fits / Funny Faces.” (It was bound to happen sooner or later, if only because I think I’m hilarious).
“Shit Fits / Funny Faces.” 12/22/13. Acrylic and spray paints, food coloring, and ink. 18×24″.
The “shit fit” that gave rise to it had nothing to do with Toilet Humor. It takes a lot more than criticism of my art to send me into a downward spiral. That only happens when something really serious goes down. You know – like A GIRL NOT PAYING ENOUGH ATTENTION TO ME FIRST THING IN THE MORNING WHEN WE WAKE UP. Or, um, somethinglike that anyway…
Hey, Heather! Look! I’m talking about you on my website again! JUST LIKE YOU (implied that) YOU WANTED (or at least liked?) (I think!?!)
(I love you).
—–
Up next, I have a canvas that’s more than twice as big as any other I’ve ever worked with. I got it for just thirty bucks!
For information regarding the availability of these (or any of my) originals for purchase, shoot me an email. [Update (12/24/13): Shit Fits / Funny Faces has been purchased].
Last January, still living in inpatient care, my friend Mary Beth got me a bunch of art supplies, including a set of calligraphy pens and inks. I got someuse out of the inks (until THOSE FASCISTS said, “You can’t give yourself tattoos in rehab, Sam – especially not sitting out by the pool“). The pens were a little more than I could handle though. I use the crow quill every now and then, but I only ever did one piece with all the different pen tips. I figure now’s a good time to throw it online, given the nature of my most recent painting.
“Rotten.” 1/3/13. Calligraphy pens and black ink. 9×12″.
It’s pretty much bullshit. It means nothing. The spoon in my hand: that’s what I was using as a tongue scraper. It’s all whatever; I was just playing around with a new toy.
“Rotten,” though, is a word I really enjoy and a feeling I’m not totally unfamiliar with. I ran a search for it on the draft of my second book and came up with a couple paragraphs about why I went to law school. I wrote this more than a year ago but just spent three hours editing it obsessively.
—–
Kevin pitched the idea and I agreed that it couldn’t hurt to just take the admissions test. At no point did I ever expect to score in the 99th percentile. Suddenly, all these schools that I never thought would even consider my application [ T14 schools] were practically begging for it. And then they were actually accepting me (even with my “criminal addendum,” failed first year of community college, and total lack of extracurriculars or wholesome activities). And they were offering me scholarships even! It was strange and – honestly – kind of exciting. It felt good and I got caught up in it, for better or worse.
I’m not sure if I ever once paused and thought, “Is this what I really want to do?” When one of the T14s – Georgetown – offered me a six-figure scholarship, my entire rationale consisted of: “this is quite the opportunity… if I don’t take advantage of it, I might regret it later…”
That’s it – that’s why I went to law school: a fear of regret. Well, that’s not all of it (it’s just the only part I’ve ever acknowledged to another human being). I also went to feel validated. It was one thing to be a shitty punk kid that shot heroin on the weekends, who was told by everyone including his mom that he was gonna grow up to be homeless and eating out of a dumpster, and who people generally regarded as less of a human being and more of a disease – to be all of that and to get straight A’s at community college or USF was [whatever]. But to fit that description and go to one of the top law schools in the country on a scholarship – this was next level. It was kind of a huge “fuck you” to everyone that looked down on me or had said I was worthless. “Rotten,” on the other hand, I was okay with. I still felt rotten – and this only concentrated it. The whole thing felt sinister. It sort of was. Fear of regret played a part but spite was right up there with it. I’ve said my law degree’s got less utility than a sheet of toilet paper but – before I got clean especially – it did serve me in that one regard: it was a pretty decent fuck you. “I may be an asshole and a fuck-up, my clothes are tattered, my teeth are gapped out, I feel like a mutant, and I smell like cigarettes, mildew, and bad decisions, but I ALSO have a law degree from Georgetown. Where do you keep your law degree from Georgetown?”
Granted, even back when I had a use for a “fuck you,” I never actually had that conversation with anyone. But if I felt like someone was condescending to me or even just thinking they had me figured out, I’d throw it out there and watch their perception of me change in an instant. Even now, since getting out of treatment, I don’t ever have a reason to “show up” anyone or to prove shit, but it can still be a fun card to play on the rare occasion when someone (possibly looking to write me off as a dirty kid who’s too lazy to get a “real” job) asks about work or school. I can just smile. Which gets at something else: to me, it’s more of a punchline than it is my proudest achievement. Sure – it’s pretty good indication that I’ve got the capacity to do [something or other] or make [some kind of shit] happen, but so is my time running Traffic Street – and that means infinitely more to me. But, shit, normal people don’t see that and I don’t wanna lie; it feels good to also have the thing under my belt that they can understand. The thing that tells ’em: if I’m opting to play with colors and paint funny faces all day, it MIGHT not be ’cause I’m a lazy idiot – I just might have my reasons…
—–
Had a long conversation with a friend tonight about the best records; it ended with me listening to Dear Landlord‘s catalog on repeat from sometime before midnight until… [it’s still going].
Here’s the last song they recorded but it better not be the last song they record.
It’s the only song of theirs that I don’t have on my iPod ’cause the download code that came with my LP doesn’t work and Adeline won’t respond to my emails. Somebody do me a solid and email me the mp3s for “The Thing That Ate Larry Livermore.”
One of my goals in 2014 is to go to the dentist. I was looking into low cost options last night and I found a “mobile dental ministry” that operates out of an RV with a mission to “provide caring dental service and a Christian witness.” I get what they’re saying but – the way that’s worded – it’s pretty funny.
Later in the night, I was really bumming out about my weight and, more generally, my physical appearance. I’m always embarrassed to acknowledge that sort of thing but… that’s what’s real. It had been a full week since I painted anything new and I knew that’s what I needed to do to get my head right.
12/19/13. Acrylic paint and food coloring. 18×24″.
So here’s my newest painting, which says: “I need 2 things – THE SHIT SCRAPED OFF MY TEETH and A CHRISTIAN WITNESS.” I’m calling it “Amazon Wishlist.”
In the bottom left corner, it also says: “probably less of a joke than I want it to be.” What I mean by that… I couldn’t be less interested in someone trying to convert me, and I’ve never found any comfort in a church, but I have found it in a few Christians.They were warm – kind in a way that a lot of people aren’t. So while you’re not gonna find me knocking on doors for Jesus anytime soon, a Christian witness just might not be the worst thing in the world.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna be a snarky little butthole and make a joke out of it. It’s whatever. I’m a smartass but I also let my guard down to acknowledge these thoroughly uncool thoughts and feelings (consequently opening myself up to ridicule) so…
It’s cool.
—–
12×16″ prints of Amazon Wishlist are available in my webstore.
Contact me if you’re interested in purchasing the original, 18×24″ painting.
The first time I ever decided to make art for its own sake, the results were… mixed. It was more than a year ago and at no point has it grown on me…
“Efhurt.” 10/26/12. Watercolor. 8½x11″.
Maybe that’s for the best though – that I dislike it so much. Maybe it’s good for me to have to accept that the one piece of art that I can’t ignore – that I can’t leave out of my story – is one of which I’m totally embarrassed.
It’s (very seriously) insane just how much something like acknowledging that this painting exists can fuck with my emotional well-being. Sitting here typing this, I don’t … – I don’t want to type it. I hate it. But I’m doing it anyway. As imperfect as all of this is – it’s a good exercise in humility. I’m not perfect, my website isn’t perfect, my stories and artwork are not all uniformly fascinating. Sometimes I’m just okay.
Okay’s not so bad, I guess.
—–
If you’d like to buy this painting, I would love to get it out of my home. Hit me up. (And remember: it’s got historical value).
“Dog’s Blood is an Excellent Laxative.” 3¾x5″. Pen. 1/25/13.
Let’s play a game! Can you sort out which is the truth and which is fiction?!?
The real subject matter of this piece remains far too personal and sensitive to disclose. Centuries from now, it will be the subject of fierce debate by art historians and scholars of all stripes, the world over.
I was looking at my “year in review” according to Facebook. It was pretty cool but I’m not sure it totally captured 2013’s significance for me.
—–
Last year, 2012: In August, I began treatment at Tranquil Shores, which included expressive art therapy. In October, I realized that I enjoyed art. In December, I accepted that I was “a fucking artist” (sort of).
2013
In January, I met Heather.
In February, I completed my inpatient treatment plan at Tranquil Shores and moved back into the outside world.
In March, I decided I wanted to make a serious attempt at finding a way to be a full-time artist without compromising exactly what I wanted to do and create. I sold art at street fairs and launched my first webstore.
In April, I began making and selling prints of my artwork.
In May, I launched a successful online campaign to determine if my plans were at all realistic and raised the resources necessary to dedicate myself to art / writing full-time.
In June, I auditioned for a movie, got the part, and then moved to Jacksonville with Heather, into my own home for the first time in more than two years.
In July, I filmed the movie and launched samnorth.art – through which I’ve shared my artwork and writing every day since.
In August, I went on tour with Rational Anthem and reconnected with the punk scene I’d disappeared from.
In September, I finally settled/stay put in Jacksonville for a minute and made (what I feel were) important strides in the development of my style and technique as an artist. I also developed a new system for (profitably) packaging and selling art prints and statements.
In October, I began promoting myself around Jacksonville and got serious about finding opportunities in the area.
In November, I had my first art show and sold record numbers of original pieces and prints.
In December, I further improved my system for prints and statements, figured out the logistics for publication of my first book, and achieved such tremendous financial stability that I took Heather out to eat burritos and it’s not even her birthday.
This was the best year of my life. I worked really hard so I’m not gonna give all the credit away but there were a lot of people that helped. Other people make a difference in my life every day. If you bought artwork from me, if you sent me an email about something that affected you, or if you just “liked” some of my work on Facebook… I’ve had days where any one of those things was enough to make all the difference. I’ve got support coming at me from a million directions and… thank you.
It was my first expressive art therapy group after Tranquil Shores readmitted me. The theme was grief / loss… and I chose to paint a giant glue bottle, chasing down some kids, trying to get them to sniff him… (I had my reasons – and I’ll get to them, I promise). It was a scene I remembered from a cartoon we watched in fifth grade. It’s stuck with me not because it was effective but because it was so incredibly stupid and condescending – even to eleven year olds! We laughed through the whole thing. It was a big dumb joke.
“Give Up, Sniff Glue.” 10/24/12. Watercolor, pencil, and pen. 12×18″.
Regarding anti-drug messages – in the short span between my discharge and return, I received some that were just slightly more powerful. I called a friend that had been my regular dealer whenever I was in Sarasota. She said she was in the hospital. Chris and I picked up some things for her and went to visit. After a particularly strong shot of heroin, she had nodded out at the wheel and flipped/rolled her car. Her scalp was torn off, her teeth were knocked out, her neck was broken, and her body was filled with broken glass. She survived but it definitely didn’t seem to be a “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger situation.” What didn’t kill her left her a fragile mess, now forever at risk of paralysis or death.
Later that night, I saw something cryptic on Facebook that seemed to imply the death of my friend, Mitch. That familiar flood of panic and dread rose up through my body and swelled into my head. I called a mutual friend in Delray…
“Taylor?”
“Hi, Sam.”
I struggled to get the words out. “Is… um – is… is Mitch… ?”
“Yeah. He is.”
PHWOOSH.
(You know the feeling…)
I had only met Mitch nine months prior; he wasn’t my best or oldest friend. But we had been in the same “small group” at Wellness Resource Center and had gotten to know each other really well. I liked him a lot. And there was another reason his death affected me as it did – a reason that didn’t really have anything to do with Mitch or my relationship with him, but that hit me on a really deep, personal level. I’ll save that for another time.
Drug addicts (particularly heroin addicts) die. And those that don’t – by virtue of their association with other addicts – get to witness a lot of death. But death isn’t the only kind of loss (it’s just the most permanent). I lost a lot in the midst of my addiction. A relationship with the girl I was about to propose to, my record label (which was sort of my whole fucking world), my integrity, and plenty of friends – to death and otherwise. So why was I sitting in expressive art therapy group (during grief/loss week), painting this stupid cartoon bottle of glue? I had my reasons, but I still felt pathetic.
I grew up as a snarky, cocky, little fuck. I had all the answers, I knew all the tricks, and I was always ready with the cynical, witty little quip. But now… now I had to be… something else. Desperation forced me into a corner where the only choices were to change everything or die. I was gonna have to look at the world with a new set of eyes and address it with a new tongue. If everything isn’t shit – and I’m not the shitty little kid – then what is it? And who am I?
The loss I was grappling with at that moment – and I mean really grappling with – was a loss of identity. Or a perceived loss of identity in any case. I was extremely grateful to have had the epiphany consequent to my discharge; I was really grateful to have been readmitted to Tranquil Shores. I was feeling upbeat, optimistic about the future, and sort of (dare I say) happy. And that was really fucking my shit up. I was friendly, and positive, and I felt like the biggest impostor on the planet. I wasn’t pretending, I wasn’t faking — but I felt like I must have been and I just didn’t know it.
At some point in that first week back, I actually asked everyone in group: “Be honest with me. Please. The way that I’ve been since I got back – positive, smiling, all that – does anyone think I’m full of shit? Like – does anyone suspect even a little bit that this is an act? You can tell me. I’m not gonna be upset.”
“Sam, there is one person who doesn’t believe you,” Tracy said.
I knew it! There was no way at least one of my peers hadn’t gone to a counselor to complain about the way I was acting. After all, this “transformation” was unbelievable! How could anyone buy into it? But was Tracy going to actually out this person? Unlikely but maybe this would goad them into coming forward themselves.
I nodded: “It’s okay, I understand absolutely.”
“It’s you, Sam. You’re the only one that doesn’t believe you.”
How did I not see that coming? I just kinda shook my head. “Okay. I guess if… I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Seriously though? Nobody else?”
Everyone assured me that they believed it and they were happy about it. Which was nice but didn’t totally squelch my skepticism. It was another couple months before I’d be able to really set it aside (and I still have little questions with myself every now and then) but I think that was the point when I was able to stop grieving the loss of my identity or (maybe) started to recognize that I hadn’t really lost anything after all. Nothing of value anyway.
I still get to play that snarky little character sometimes – he’s just less of an asshole than he used to be. (His jokes aren’t mean anymore). And I also get to play another character now: the kind, loving friend that actually gives a shit. I think I’ve struck a pretty good balance.
—–
One of the albums I released through Traffic Street Records was the first full-length by The Credentials. The first song in particulalar has meant (and continues to mean) a lot to me.
“Nice Girl / Coffee Shop” by The Credentials Rolled down the footbridge, waited for the light Like giving up on all my dreams or finding out a friend had died
It seems like anywhere I go from here won’t really take me anywhere.
Our fingertips are numbing from the cold and how we make it go away
The deafening silence, alone in our heads, won’t leave us alone
So we hope that our friends can relate to that feeling
That weight on your chest, walking back home across the turnpike again
I saw her standing there behind a counter across the street I crumpled up a flier in disgust and in defeat
You see, I’m sick of knowing what it is I want out of this life – and fucking up While all these assholes mill around and can’t decide
Same old story, drunk and bored
We trudge on through the slush and stormy weather Wishing superstitious fears would go follow someone else.
Up next, I have a canvas that’s more than twice as big as any other I’ve ever worked with. I got it for just thirty bucks!
![Still Sick (The Illest) [image]](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/stillsick.jpg)
![Dear Jacksonville [letter]](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/dear-jacksonville.jpg)
![Note to Self or: A Pile of Red Boxes Dances Along to the Raging Spiritual and Moral Conflicts That Rattle His (Presumably) Cardboard Bones [image]](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/notetoself.jpg)
