My painting, Don’t Let Anyone Tell You You Can’t Kill Yourself, You TOTALLY Can, is a guide to overcoming suicidal ideation by changing your circumstances. It was born of my own experience and, like much of my work, is a whole lot of vulnerability and sincerity hiding behind the protective shield of its mischievous title (which, in this case, is a joke about grammar).
At Mount Gretna, I heard more of that PLUS ANOTHER KINDA REACTION. One of the [art] show’s volunteers quit over it. Later as a woman looked over my work, smiling and commenting on the pieces she liked most, her husband lingered outside the front of the booth. When she moved on to the next artist, this guy stayed in that same spot until…
“You should kill yourself,” he said.
“Why would I do that?” I asked with a smirk, not yet realizing how serious he was.
“Because it would be funny to me,” he said, deadpan. “I’d even pay to make it happen. I’ll donate to your funeral if you kill yourself.”
How do you even respond to that? Doesn’t matter. He turned and disappeared into the crowd as soon as the words were outta his mouth.
I’m tempted to make excuses for him. Maybe he lost someone he loves to suicide. Though he didn’t even bother to try to understand my painting – which should be a fucking prerequisite before you get pissed off at art. Doesn’t matter. Here’s what does:
What We Do | 8-25-2026 | 36 x 24 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
WE ARE WHAT WE DO.
The kind of person you think you are? Fuckin’ meaningless. The things you’ve been through? They don’t excuse shit.
YOU ARE YOUR ACTIONS.
This is something I remind myself of all the time. ‘Cuz it got beat into me real early that I was born bad.
But I’m not bad, unless I do bad. So I’m regularly asking myself, “What’d you do today, Sam?”
“a pile of red boxes dances along to the raging moral and spiritual conflicts that rattle his (presumably) cardboard bones, i sing songs and paint funny faces, and some dickhead tells me to kill myself. ‘SUP WITH YOU?”
Pretty much the same thing I do most days. I shared my very personal art and writing with the world. Whatever humor or insight I have, I shared with people who FOR THE MOST PART loved and appreciated it. I made a few people cry, dozens laugh, and hundreds smile. And I painted – as I sang along to punk rock and had conversations with people who told me they were inspired. That I was a light. I got a lot of thank yous, handshakes, and hugs.
I have a positive impact. And THOUGH I CAN BE BRASH, I’m kind (or at least try to be) to everyone. That’s what I did on Sunday.
This guy, on the other hand, I’m guessing he thinks he’s a good person. And MAYBE HE IS – I don’t know what else he did that day. But I do know that he told someone who – at least historically – would best be described as an emotionally unstable mental case – he cold told that person: kill yourself.
I’m doing pretty well these days. I can brush it off. Was I rattled? More than I’d like to admit. But I’ll be alright.
I’m not gonna kill myself. I’m gonna continue waking up every day, trying to be the best person I can, by making the best choices I can.
We’re what we do.
Do good today.
I’m SO SAD to report that three of my five most recent paintings (including this one) are already sold. But if you’d like to find out which paintings are still available, you can always shoot me a message. Buy prints in my webstore or come see me in person.
Sign up for my mailing list to get updates like this one, whenever I finish a new piece. If that’s not fast enough for you, follow me on Instagram or TikTok for previews of works-in-progress (and ASSORTED NONSENSE).
At War with God | 7-23-2026 | 12 x 36 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
I’m so bored of explaining AT WAR WITH GOD.
It’s an absurd, amusing concept. If you believe in God, you believe he’s the all-powerful creator of all things. No one would GO TO WAR with something like that because you know you’d lose. Unless you’re fucking insane. In which case you’re probably not a functional human being with the discipline and organization to make a living as a full-time artist.
And yet people see this painting and get upset. Like it’s literal. Like I’m trying to RECRUIT THEIR CHILDREN AS FOOT SOLDIERS TO STORM THE GATES OF HEAVEN.
I don’t like authority. Words like “insubordinate” and “rebellion” are exciting to me. I like an underdog or a fun villain. And Leonardo is the worst ninja turtle. You know what makes for good characters? Flaws. God’s not interesting.
But when you make God relatable, bring him down to your level…
Cap’n Jazz sang “Hey, God – I dare you to SAY IT TO MY FACE?” Characterizing God as a petty coward who only talks his shit behind your back – SO MUCH FUN.
As much as I’d like to believe in God, I don’t. It’s just not in me. But it’s FUN TO PRETEND – to have him as a symbolic adversary.
The world’s never felt like it was designed for my success. Life’s often felt rigged against me. If God created this game I’m not meant to win, then every success is a skirmish I’ve won in my WAR WITH GOD.
Christians will say I’ve got it backward. My successes are God lifting me up.
Who cares?
Certainly not an all-knowing, all powerful God.
AJJ sang “My god thinks my jokes are funny.” Why wouldn’t he? Is God UPTIGHT? Is he too dull to have a sense of humor – or recognize when something is provocative but innocuous? Not a chance.
God’s benevolent. And a benevolent God doesn’t punish jokes or condemn his children to eternal suffering. And he certainly doesn’t condemn THIS CHILD.
Prices and availability of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints are available upon request. Some prints are available for purchase in the webstore. Check my calendar to see if I’m coming to your area anytime soon. Follow me on Instagram or TikTok for more regular updates (and nonsense). Subscribe to my newsletter if you want to get an email every month or so (whenever I finish a new painting).
D.L.A.T.Y.Y.C.K.Y.Y.T.C. | 5-24-2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 24 x 30 in
I thought I’d be living at Tranquil Shores for at least another two months but when I went into the clinical office that morning, I found out I only had ten days before my discharge.
I felt shattered. Caught completely off-guard. I walked back to the residential property alone and remembered a conversation I’d had with my sister 18 months earlier.
I’d just been released from the hospital, following an attempted overdose. “You can’t kill yourself, Sam. That’s so selfish,” she told me.
Fuck you, I thought. “You know what’s really selfish, Racey? Expecting me to endure this kind of pain every day – to keep on with this shitty, empty life – devoid of any happiness whatsoever – so that you can call me on the phone two or three times a year.”
You wouldn’t be reading this right now if my life hadn’t EVENTUALLY IMPROVED, but – back then – my life hurt. Every day was painful. I felt isolated, hopelessly addicted to heroin, and lost. I could see no way out. It didn’t have to be that way, but I didn’t yet have the emotional tools I needed to do anything about it.
While I managed to turn my life around, some people suffer for decades on end. And as bitter and angry as I was when Racey said that to me, I’m still not sure we owe it to anyone else to stay stuck in a life like that.
That said – unless you’re in chronic pain or suffering from debilitating, UNABATING mental illness, you probably shouldn’t kill yourself. Not unless you’ve exhausted ALL other options. Because – as dark and miserable as life can be (and BELIEVE ME, I KNOW), it can also be pretty great.
If you’re truly ready to die, truly ready to give up on everything, then you’ve got nothing left to lose. So – before you kill yourself – lose it. Blow up your life before ending it. Choose uncertainty over unhappiness. Suicide is usually the consequence of feeling trapped. But you’re not trapped.
End the relationship. Quit your job. Break the lease. Disconnect your phone. Move across the country. Do whatever it takes to get out of your rut.
In my admittedly limited experience, when I make choices that demonstrate love (for myself and for others), things have a way of working out.
If all of this sounds impossible, I assure you: it’s easier than you think. If it sounds terrifying, do it anyway.
Worst case scenario: you were right, nothing gets better, and suicide is still an option.
DON’T LET ANYONE TELL YOU OTHERWISE.
But it’s not a very good option.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
This painting is what I call an UPCYCLE. I took the concept from one of my very early paintings and used it for this new one. The one I’m working on now is gonna be another one.
ON A RELATED NOTE, I’ve got three fairly recent paintings that I decided weren’t quite good enough. They were CLOSE but not quite. In the past, I believed in leaving each painting as a snapshot of where I was at right when I made it. Fuck that. I don’t wanna hang or sell something I’m not 100% proud of and happy with. So I went back to work on those three paintings and now I’m even more excited about them than I was when they were brand new.
Poor Forever | 10/12/25* | acrylic on canvas | 36x36"
Initially painted from August 31 to October 12, 2025, in Durham, NC; Augusta and Savannah, GA; and Oviedo, Largo, St Petersburg, and Lakeland, FL. Revisions / more painting in May 2026, in Louisville, KY.
Read about it in my blog entry for November 19, 2025.
Buy a signed, limited-edition 12x12" print in the webstore.
You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (and Other Lies)
8-30-2025* | 36 x 48 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
Painted in Tampa, St Petersburg, and Bradenton, FL; Savannah, GA; Columbia, SC; and Greensboro, NC, between June 27 and August 30, 2025. Additional text added in Tampa, FL and Spartanburg, SC on November 4 and 18, 2025. Major revisions on May 13, 2026.
Read its statement in the blog entry for November 24, 2025.
Signed limited-edition 16x12” prints may be available for purchase in the webstore.
Availability and prices of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints upon request.
The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl
7-26-2024* | 36 x 36 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
Originally started and "finished" in Sarasota, FL between July 7 and 26, 2024. "Finished" again in 2026 in Durham, NC on May 13 and AGAIN in Monroe, MI on June 19.
Read its statement in the blog entry for July 31, 2024.
Signed limited-edition 12x12” prints may be available for purchase in the webstore.
Availability and prices of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints upon request.
DLATYYCKYYTC is so titled as a nod to IYDKMRNIGE. I can rattle off either acronym LIKE IT’S NOTHIN’. (Yes, I’ve practiced).
Fruit of the Poisonous Me | 13 April 2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 40 x 60 in
January started well enough and then the ice storm canceled three events I’d booked in North Carolina. My next show was back in Florida. “Why’d I even leave?”
I decided to visit my brother in Durham.
February 1st – the night it happened, I was downstairs, gathering my things to go up to the guest room for the night. I heard an engine turning over.
“That sounds too close to the house to be a neighbor… Is someone trying to hotwire my bus?,” I thought.
I went to the window and saw the flames. I ran into the snow barefoot only to find the doors of the bus locked. I ran back in to grab my keys and shout to my sleeping brother, “MAX! I need the fire extinguisher now!”
One of my first thoughts was that Max and his wife were gonna be upset with me for this. I considered not even waking Max or asking for the fire extinguisher. But I was also hopeful that the fire could be contained and this might not wreck my entire life. Maybe I could even put it out in time to play it off like no big deal and that I was only asking for the extinguisher out of an abundance of caution.
That was not the case.
journal: Tuesday, February 3
The loss of my bus (my home) and my art are so devastating that it’s been way too easy for me to lose sight of…
HOW DEVASTATING THE LOSS OF EVERYTHING ELSE IS TOO.
Picking through the charred remains for anything that can be salvaged… – forget about the cost of replacing the bus or the fact that the art can’t be replaced. Virtually everything else I own… – it’s just death by a thousand cuts. I’m gonna be POOR FOREVER.
The fire may not have been my fault, but it’s all FRUIT OF THE POISONOUS TREE (me).
Well there’s the title and concept for a painting if ever there was one.
I’m gonna be fucking fine (or as “fine” as I’ve ever been). I get that. Even as I’m writing this all out. It’s just a low moment. But – fuck – this is all so much and it’s all so hard.
I had a thought that amused me. I played with the idea of adding it to the incinerated fragments of (what had once been) one of my paintings.
Have you ever fantasized about your home burning down, just to get a totally fresh start?
I USED TO.
Moments of bitter levity aside, I was overwhelmed. Everyone told me to take a minute. Collect myself. Not stress about pulling everything together in time to make it to the next show. I could miss one weekend they told me.
Nope.
I left my ashpile of a bus in NC and rented a van to get to Florida in time for the Downtown Sarasota Festival of the Arts. Late that night, a message popped up on the dash.
DRIVER ALERT WARNING REST SUGGESTED
I laughed to myself. “If I won’t take this advice from my loved ones, I’m certainly not taking it FROM A RENTED CARGO VAN.”
The concept of “pride”… I’m not a fan. There’s not much I’m proud of. But looking across my booth that weekend, I was kind of amazed. Yeah, my ProPanels smelled like burnt trash and Motivation and Luckiest Little Shit were smoke-damaged but fuck me if this set-up didn’t still look impressive. I snapped a photo to share online and captioned it:
If anyone was wondering WHETHER THAT FIRE COULD EAT MY DICK OR NOT – 4 days later, I’m 4 states away, doing the art festival I had booked AS PLANNED
I’m not proud of my clean time. I’m fucking forty. It’s embarrassing that I wasted so many years. I’m only sort of proud of my achievements within the scope of my art career. If I’d not been on drugs forever, I’d have done these things so much sooner. I’d be so much further by now.
But I was proud of this. To experience such loss and not let it slow me at all – it made me feel pretty resilient.
That said, I wondered how people online would respond to the news of the fire. How they’d react to what I was writing and saying about it on social media.
“Probably they’ll just think I’m an idiot, a loser, and that this is more of the same for me.”
“And they’ll probably think this is going to push me to start shooting up again.”
Oh… shit… “This is the first time since the fire that the concept of drugs has even crawled across my brain.”
That wouldn’t have been the case at any other point. Historically, the pattern’s been: (1) bad thing happens, (2) “I need to shoot up right now.”
I wouldn’t say I’m proud that I didn’t immediately fall apart and want to use, but I am pleased by it. That it was never even under consideration is strong evidence of my progress.
A few weeks later, I was driving, listening to the miserable, self-loathing songs that light up my little punk rock heart and a thought occurred to me: “I love this as much as I ever have, but do I still relate to it? Do these lyrics still describe how I feel?”
It was a major revelation. “Holy shit. For the first time in my life – I don’t think I hate myself anymore.”
“I think I actually even like myself. I like what I do. I like how I behave. And I really like what I make.” (Actually, I love what I make).
But FIRE ASIDE, things were going well. “Do I just feel good right now? Maybe my response to the fire was a fluke. If something else goes wrong, I might very quickly remember all the excellent and valid reasons to hate myself.”
I got an answer within minutes. Another driver flagged me down. Said the back corner of my new RV scuffed their car.
My license had just been canceled over some stupid paperwork shit from ten years ago. I’d already enlisted a lawyer to help sort it out but – on that day – I could not have cops show up. I could not have this going through my insurance. I was gonna have to pay these people.
I got the number a week or so later. They wanted $4,600.
I didn’t even know if I’d actually caused any damage, but I couldn’t take any chances. I paid the $4,600. It fucking STUNG.
But it didn’t make me hate myself. Almost the opposite? Even following THE TREMENDOUS HIT of the fire, I could afford this one too. That meant something.
I didn’t tell too many people about the settlement I’d paid. I was embarrassed even though I felt like the situation wasn’t my fault. Because it wasn’t random chance. A seed had been planted ten years ago when – detoxing from heroin – I’d taken too much Xanax, blacked out, and gotten charged with THREE SIMULTANEOUS DUIs. Now, that seed had BLOSSOMED into more poisonous fruit.
Journaling, I realized: I’ve always been very good at blaming myself (in a very childish, mostly meaningless sorta way) for anything bad that happened, but I don’t know that I was ever really able to accept responsibility. A lot of the most destructive “fires” in my life were more genuinely my fault than I’ve previously understood. And they shared a common spark – a subconscious core belief that the rules don’t apply to me, so I should be exempt from consequences.
I’ve had an Adderall prescription since I was a kid, but I was all over the country in 2014 and unable to refill it for a few months. When I dropped Abby off at rehab and she offered me her bottle of Adderall, it felt serendipitous.
Until they charged me with a felony for it.
A more reasonable person might have thought “it’s illegal for me to accept this.” I thought, “this is reasonable, I don’t care that it’s technically illegal.”
Sort of like how I continued to drive when my license was cancelled.
It shouldn’t have been canceled, so I shouldn’t have to stop driving – right?
I still don’t “respect” the law but I’m too old to think I can continue to break it and never suffer the consequences. Shit doesn’t work that way.
Maybe I’m not inherently (and irrevocably) poisonous. Maybe I just need to accept that I can’t always get special treatment. And maybe if I learn to accept responsibility when I break a rule, I’ll stop feeling like I’m to blame for the fires that weren’t my fault.
Or maybe not. I DON’T KNOW. This shit just happened. These thoughts are all FRESH FRUIT.
I’ve got upcoming shows in Myrtle Beach, Waynesville (NC), Atlanta, Raleigh, Roanoke, Crestwood (KY), Michigan (West Bloomfield, Cheboygan, and Ludington), St Louis, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and The Hamptons. At least one new show is usually added to the calendar each week, which you can check for more details.
I don’t think I’m going to use this site as a blog anymore. For more regular updates, follow me on Instagram or TikTok.
You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone (and Other Lies): The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah” | 13 May 2026* | acrylic on canvas | 48×36″
It’s the morning of my birthday, I’m in a tiff with my friends, and – even though I’m generally having a good time right now – that conflict is adding a dark undercurrent to my feelings.
I just had a moment – and the feeling that I miss having a person. That one person who I can share everything with. I thought about how my last person just flew across the country to go into rehab again. And then I started thinking about nurturingsick relationships, which brought me a sinister kinda delight. And THEN it occurred to me that I could shoot up today and no one would ever know. And I doubt I will, but I still HAD THE THOUGHT.
It’s around 5pm now and Brandon texted to ask if I’m coming over. (Not when, but if). I asked about THE PUMPKIN at the heart of the embarrassingly petty conflict between us.
He didn’t call and say: “Let’s not stress it, it’s your birthday, let’s just have a good time.” He texted back: “If you wanna argue about it, maybe it wouldn’t be a good birthday dinner.”
So I just thumbs-upped that shit and I’m not going. I’m not feeling anything like DEEP DESPAIR, but I am feeling a little like “fuck everyone else in the world.” I leave town soon so now it’ll be at least 5 weeks before I even have a chance to see Brandon and Amanda again.
Those two are my best friends. They took me in when I was at my worst and helped me get my life together when everyone else told them not to take a chance on me. Without them, I wouldn’t be making art or building a career. I wouldn’t have any reason to leave town for 5 weeks.
But knowing they haven’t realized they just missed their last chance to see me until December – that gives me a sinister kinda satisfaction too. I’m PUNISHING THEM.
This painting’s not about going away for 5 weeks. Its title (LIKE ALL GOOD TITLES) is a suicide threat. I’m not even 5% of the way to feeling suicidal BUT I STILL ENJOY THE SENTIMENT.
Being dead so EVERYONE CAN FEEL BAD ABOUT THE HORRIBLE INJUSTICES THEY INFLICTED UPON ME is a nice fantasy. Emphasis on “fantasy.” No one gives a shit and I’m a fucking crybaby.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone?” I mean – sure, sort of. But not really. People move on.
The small text on the book’s cover is: The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah.” I wrote it with my ex in mind. She says she loves me but – even before she flew off to rehab – she wasn’t with me. I don’t even know that I wanted her to be, but I did want her to want to (be with me).
That’s dumb ego shit. I need to drop it. All the “sinister” stuff – that’s dumb too, but I ENJOY IT SO MUCH. And it might be an inexplicable part of who I am. I’m sort of okay with that because I think it’s a coping mechanism and – so far as coping mechanisms go – I’ve had worse.
You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone was painted from 27 June 2025 through 30 August 2025, with additions on 4 and 18 November 2025, and major revisions on 13 May 2026.
I’ve historically had the policy that once a painting is finished, it is locked in amber as a snapshot of where I was as a person (and an artist) at that moment in time. But I’ve been thinking more seriously about my career lately and want all of my work to be of the highest caliber. After this painting was finished, I wrote long journal entries that I transcribed onto the canvas and used as the foundation for this statement. Months later, I repainted 15-20% of the canvas and cut most of the journals from the statement. They were PRETTY TRIVIAL and I no longer think my work needs embarrassingly specific details to be interesting. My standards for color, composition, and expressivity, on the other hand… KEEP RISING.
Poor Forever | 10/12/25 | acrylic on canvas | 36×36″
“Do you wanna be POOR FOREVER?” is what I ask my friends when they spend money frivolously. It’s also the question that rings out in my head whenever I’m considering spending money on ANYTHING.
My attitudes about money come from my dad, his dad, and my mom. There were the ways they talked about money and the ways I saw them use it.
My dad was POOR FOREVER. Or at least he acted like he was. Based on my inheritance [his clothing] I’m gonna assume that he probably was. He certainly never spent money on me or my siblings. And if any of us were to ever ask for something, it was QUITE THE ORDEAL. Because, as he told it, he just didn’t have it!If it was important enough, maybe he could ask my grandpa.
But he also had some curiously expensive shit. And he traveled a lot. Maybe that was all paid for by his second wife. I don’t know.
My mom had FAMILY MONEY. She was very good at spending it. So far as I know, that’s why she no longer has anyfamily money.
In any case, I don’t have a safety net. Not that I’m aware of anyway.
My grandpa died recently. He worked his whole life and made a good living but still kinda behaved as if he were afraid of being poor forever. That’s how I’m trying to be. That’s how you accrue SAVINGS. And “savings” give you safety.
My grandpa wrote a bunch of different wills over the course of the last twenty years but I don’t know the details of his estate and I kinda feel like it’s none of my business anyway. Even if he didn’t provide for me directly, I’m pretty sure he provided for my dad and (SEEING AS MY DAD’S DEAD) maybe some of that’s supposed to trickle to me. But I don’t know and I’ll probably never look into it, so I just focus on trying to take care of myself.
Don’t get me wrong – I WOULD LIKE SOME MONEY. (PLEASE GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY). Not to spend – just to have. Because I kinda live in a perpetual, low-level state of financial anxiety. And it would be super nice to know that I’m not gonna die in poverty.
None of this is to say though that I’m even in poverty now. As I wrote into the top left of this painting: “I realized today that I have more money than I’ve ever had.” And – since then – that number has continued to TREND UP. My bank account wouldn’t blow anyone’s mind, but it’s more than most of my friends or family have.
My concern is that my overhead is very low. If I were living A NORMAL LIFE, I would not be able to tuck this much cash away.
And if I can be a FUCKING FAGGOT for a second, I think I still wanna have a FOREVER PARTNER and a kid. And those things require money.
[Please excuse my use of the word “faggot” but — as we all know — there’s nothing gayer than falling in love with a girl].
There are other journals scattered about the painting. I allude to officiating my grandpa’s funeral in place of a rabbi (despite my not having grown up Jewish (or anything)). I refer to the statement I wrote on my blog (AND ON INSTAGRAM) right when he died. I joke about making excuses for not becoming the MOST SUCCESSFUL ARTIST TO EVER LIVE.
The gist is that money isn’t important but a sense of security is. We all wanna feel safe. We all wanna be able to take care of the people we love (EVEN IF THEY DON’T EXIST YET (and possibly never will)).
Some people think my art is HILARIOUS – and THEY’RE RIGHT – but a lot of them don’t look closely enough to see that that’s not all that it is. I’m trying to be taken more seriously as an artist (for the $ame reason$ that thi$ piece i$ all about)but, at the risk of undercutting that, I’ll just say that this painting (like much of my art) is an attempt to find humor in the shit that freaks me the fuck out.
If that’s not the language of a SERIOUS ARTIST…
Then I just might be POOR FOREVER.
I painted POOR FOREVER between 8/31/2025 and 10/12/2025, but then went back and did more work on it in May 2026. I wrote this statement on November 17th, 2025.
The DEATH OF SAMMY THRASHLIFE – but first: my newest painting and its story.
All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me | 10/23/25 | acrylic on canvas | 24×36″
“Come inside with me,” Jon said. “I wanna show off how punk you are.”
Ooooo – that made me feel PRETTY COOL. I was fourteen years old and this older kid who played guitar and sang in a punk band thought I was SUPER PUNK.
We went inside THE KFC where he worked and he got his paycheck. When we got back in the car, he explained to me, “Yeah, I don’t really dress punk anymore. There’s no one in this town to be punk for. It’s definitely not gonna get you any girls. It’s still fucking cool though.”
I think the knee-jerk judgmental reaction is that Jon was wrong. That you should be yourself no matter what.1
But Jon was also just a kid navigating adolescence and figuring shit out (even if, to me, he couldn’t have been more of an ELDER STATESMAN; I mean, come on, he was in ELEVENTH GRADE).
(It’s also worth noting that we’re talking about clothing. An expression of identity but not identity itself. It’s not FUNDAMENTALLY IMPORTANT).
I respected him and thought about what he’d said. (OBVIOUSLY IT STUCK WITH ME ‘cause I’m writing about it 25 years later). But I didn’t tone my shit down any. I STILL HAVEN’T. (For better or worse).
The wrong reading of “All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me” is that I’m doing anything for that purpose. I’m not. What I am doing is being myself in the loudest manner possible. And I am hoping that these paintings, my writing, my BEHAVIOR, and my style will act as a BEACON to the girls that are already predisposed to finding them attractive. My hope is that all of these things provide a SHORTCUT to girls seeing who I am and what I’m about.
I gotta say: it sure felt like it was a more effective tactic when I was doing this 10 to 12 years ago. My whole SCHTICK is not as attractive at 39 as it was at 28. But that’s okay. I’m a victim of ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT. That’s what addiction does to you. I’m also a victim of PUNK ROCK and its attendant Peter Pan Syndrome. I likely always will be.
Which is ALSO OKAY. As much as I sometimes get down on myself, I fucking like me. I THINK I’M SUPER COOL (and definitely still REALLY, REALLY PUNK).
When the time is right, the right girl will come along, see, and appreciate that too. ‘Cause I’m not super interested in girlS anymore. I want THE girl. (Even if I don’t know who she is yet).
Speaking of which, the text that’s actually in the painting reads:
ALL OF THIS IS JUST TO GET GIRLS TO LIKE ME (More precisely, a girl. The right girl).
Do you THINK I’M SPECIAL YET? Do you wanna be my girlfriend now?
(Can’t you tell how thoughtful I am? Don’t you hear THE MOUNTAIN GOATS SONG I’ve got playing?)
And then, written on the side of the canvas:
So I decided to cannibalize my own idea. One of my next paintings was gonna be called: “Girls Don’t Like Boys, Girls Like Weed and Target.” But let’s be real – that’s ‘cause it would SELL. There’s no EMOTIONAL TRUTH in that. So, instead, I made it part of this painting by filling space with Target logos and pot leaves. And now I can joke that it’s SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING.”
I advertise the borderline personality disorder diagnosis all the time, but I also suffer from a really serious disorder that CAUSES ME TO THINK I’M FUNNY. With god’s help, maybe one day they’ll find the cure.
It’s been 19 months since I got clean and almost a year since I crept out from the shadows and rejoined the world. Everything’s gone really well for me in that time. But I’m older than I was in ROUND ONE of my art career and Sammy thrashLife feels even sillier to me now than when I first jokingly coined it. So I’m in the process of “rebranding” with my real name.
The new logo, which only took two hours to make. (Not impressed?? Are you suggesting it shouldn’t take me that long to write my own name??)
I think I fell into a trap where I thought everything about me needed to pull focus. That I needed every element of my presentation to cast out a line to hook someone. “I have borderline personality disorder. I used to manage with heroin. Now I make art instead.” That’s all true but maybe I don’t need to LEAD with the backstory. Maybe I should let my art speak for itself. (IT CERTAINLY HAS PLENTY TO SAY). And then if people are interested, they can discover the rest.
So I’ve launched samnorth.art (and samnorthart.com, for anyone whose brain just CAN’T HANDLE a dot-art url) and will be building those out soon. And I’m gonna phase out “Sammy thrashLife” on all my banners, fliers, social media, etc.
The new site may not have a blog or a webstore. It’ll still have the statements for each painting and drawing but they’ll likely be a little more tucked away, rather than the focus. If I’m being HONEST, all of these changes are aimed at the way I’m perceived by high end galleries and collectors. I’ve got no interest in changing my artwork, changing my personality, or changing my BEHAVIOR, but if some minor adjustments to my presentation help to get me taken more seriously: COOL.
If that at all concerns you, please know that I wrote the statement for another painting last night, it directly addressed my desire to be “taken more seriously,” and yet I STILL COULDN’T HELP MYSELF from making it as raw, as fucking ridiculous, and as embarrassing as anything I’ve ever made. So much so that I’m nervous to share it. So if you’re a fan of all this, exactly as it is – don’t fret; Sam North is very much the exact same artistand writer as Sammy thrashLife.
