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The Labors of Love: A Creative Life

This spring, I gave a talk at Towson University to seniors preparing to undertake their BFA final projects. In preparing for the talk, I reflected on what I’ve learned about making art and being an artist. I thoroughly enjoyed writing and giving that talk, and I want to record some of my guiding principles here in my Labors of Love opinion section.

Pessimism robs ordinary people of their power


I’m starting out with the wooliest of my principles, because it was the first one I came to believe. For years, I’ve attributed this as an actual quote from Colin Wilson. In writing this post, I looked it up and found that it’s not a direct quote, but rather a paraphrase from a 2005 article:


In books on sex, crime, psychology and the occult, and in more than a dozen novels, Mr. Wilson has explored how pessimism can rob ordinary people of their powers.
Brad Spurgeon, Aug. 17, 2005

When I read this in August of 2005, a light switch flipped on in my brain. Pessimism is poison.

I made a rule about my online persona, which is to always be positive. I do not argue with people online, and I do not post negative comments on social media. I use this blog to amplify the positive things in my life—and I try to do this offline, too.

I cannot prove to you that the Law of Attraction is a real universal law like gravity or photosynthesis. My experience has led me to believe that it works—and I think that’s how it’s supposed to be. You try it, and you decide for yourself. I could point to Albert Einstein, who reportedly believed something similar. It may also be that I have advantages that make it easier for me to “manifest” things. And yes, bad things happen to people all over the world, every day.

Popularized by Rhonda Byrne in The Secret (and before that Abraham-Hicks), the Law of Attraction states that we attract to ourselves whatever we most think about. I’ve written about LoA previously. Focusing on negative feelings and experiences generates more negative experiences and reinforces negative feelings. For me, there are far worse things than trying to live a positive life, and thinking positive thoughts. Even if reality itself isn’t altered, your experience of it certainly can be.

I have spent years actively experimenting with this – it’s as close to a religious practice as I’ve come (meditation is my spiritual practice). I will tell you: my life has improved. I find value in this, and continue to work with these principles. It is part of my way in this life.

I bring this principle to this artistic website: Always be positive.

What do you want?

Goals and deadlines are great things.

You can’t manifest anything unless you know what you want. What you really want, in the secret places of your heart.

Do you want to direct films? Or be a published novelist? Do you want to make all your own clothes, or run an artist co-op? It’s really important to get clear about what you want.

It might be that you just want to be an artist. What is an artist? I think an artist is someone who makes art. That’s it. Is there a difference between a craftsperson and an artist and a designer? Who cares? That question feels irrelevant to me. The real question is, what lights you up? Do you want write romance stories? Are you a poet? Do you sing?

Once I figured out my paper cut dioramas, I felt like I made a great discovery. I felt awake, and excited. After awhile, I asked myself, now what? I have this thing I love – what should I do next?

That same week, I went to a talk in Baltimore, and a friend introduced me to an art professor as “an artist,” having seen my dioramas. The professor asked what my goals were and seemed surprised when I said I wasn’t interested in selling them—I just wanted to show them.
“So refreshing,” she said.

She told me to make a packet with photos and short descriptions of my pieces, including the medium, size and year made. She suggested three galleries in town that accept “quirky” work. That same week, I assembled photos of the 11 dioramas I had created. I included a short, polite cover letter and attached my resume.

Within weeks, I heard from two of the three galleries, and that’s how I got started. Without that concrete goal, I might not have ever begun to show my work. As for the third gallery, I met the curator a few years later, and we became dear friends.

Use up all your ideas


Ideas are creative currency that need to be spent. Hoarding them accomplishes nothing, yet executing an idea produces new work and usually leads to more ideas.

Many years ago, I was in a band called Bazooka Joe. I played drums and sang, but also wrote songs for the band. I was just starting out in the world as an adult, and I had a lot of growing up to do.

I used to go to our practice space by myself and write songs, playing guitar and bass. I wrote several particularly good guitar riffs. At the time, I thought they weren’t right for Bazooka Joe, so I didn’t share them. I figured I’d record them myself someday.

In hindsight, I should have brought those ideas to the band. They would have made my ideas better. Instead, those songs now only exist on an old cassette in a shoebox in my basement. No one has heard them. Had I shared them, the band might’ve taken new musical paths. Whatever spark those ideas held has faded.

As a visual artist, I work all the time. I get an idea, execute it in some form, and write about it here. Often, more ideas come as I work. I document them in my sketchbook and keep going.

At the very least, once I finishing a work, there’s room inside my head for the next thing.

Make your best work and put it where people can find it

Austin Kleon wrote this in his book Steal Like an Artist. It’s obvious once you hear it: Let people discover you. Put your work where folks can find it.

If you don’t already have your own domain name and website, I recommend getting one. Email me if you don’t know how.

The diagram above shows a typical online presence, with some of the tools available to you. I suggest that a website should be at the heart of anyone’s online presence, artistically speaking. This is an older graphic I made for another talk that I gave, and it demonstrates my point. Twitter no longer exists in the form it did when I made this image. And Substack has become a popular thing for people to use. Platforms come and go. Your website can and should outlast them all. This website predates most of the services shown in that image.

Perfection is a trap

If I waited for every idea to be completely formed in my head before I started working on the (recording/film/animation/story/drawing/comic/diorama/zine), or if I tried to make the art be “perfect” before I shared it, I would never finish anything. In all likelihood, I would never even start. The is something very authentic in letting some “mistakes” survive our artistic processes. I think a lot of my identity is seated here. It’s viable, even vital, expression. Let it rip! Get onto the next thing. We do not get to know how much time we have.

Keep going

As I just wrote, we do not get to know how much time we have. We cannot look ahead, only back.

We can’t know how close we are to achieving our goals. If you decide to throw in the towel while you are in the game, you might just be a few feet away an artistic touchdown, and you wouldn’t know it. We cannot see what’s just ahead of us, so keep going!

Show up

Go to things, talk with people.

Almost every major opportunity I’ve had began with a handshake, a conversation, or an introduction. I am an introvert, and every evening spent at home in my studio with my wife and the dogs feels like heaven. Still, I go to things, and I talk with people, and I’m always glad I did.

Make as much work as possible

This is the cousin of “Use up all your ideas.” Not only will you get more ideas, but you’ll learn about yourself. Aren’t we always evolving and growing? I hope so—and making a lot of work helps us see that evolution.

At the very least, you will have a good time.

I work in cycles: periods of intense productivity followed by rest. Even while resting, things percolate in the back of my mind. I need both parts of the cycle—and I feel no shame about that.

I keep sketchbooks and composition books for all my pursuits. I have one dedicated solely to documenting song ideas using guitar effects, with notes on the pedal chain setup so I don’t forget.

I often wake up in the middle of the night after a few hours of sleep. It’s not uncommon that I walk down the hall to my studio and work for an hour or so, by which time I can get back to sleep. It’s time well spent, and when I’m extra motivated, I will spend time working in the studio for an hour before work. An hour spent working every day ends up being 7 hours a week – that’s about a full work day. It adds up!

I am a creature that responds very well to deadlines, so I’m always on the lookout for opportunities to exhibit art and screen films at festivals. I rarely will pay a fee to be considered for an art exhibit. I believe those costs should be covered by the gallery. A lot of them seem to be fleecing artists. Animation/film festivals are a little different. It costs money to produce a festival (especially ones that’s aren’t in a public park under a gazebo). But those costs add up, and they often don’t produce a screening. That, as my dad used to say, is showbiz.

I am a creature of habit, and I will habitually spend time in my studio working through a backlog of ideas while waiting for the next BIG idea to land. At this point, I probably have more ideas than I can execute, although I will certainly try. Habit, then, is yet another tool I rely on to be productive.

What does success look like?

You decide! This connects directly to your goals—and goals evolve.

I consider myself to be a successful artist (Remember, an artist is someone who makes art). Art allows me to express myself, and create joy in my life. I am happy.

“What about money,” you might ask. “Do you make a living at this?”

No. I have a day job for that.

And I like having one—it lets me be an artist. I have health insurance and can afford the modest supplies I use. I can take risks with my art because I’m not financially dependent on selling it. That freedom is wonderful.

I’ve learned a lot from my jobs—how to use technology, communicate, manage complex projects, write clearly. All of that makes me a better artist.

In the early days of Bazooka Joe, I didn’t always have a job. It was awful. We made weird, difficult music. It wasn’t going to pay the bills. We tried to get signed to noise labels. I released our music on my tape label. Releasing music and touring takes money.

I love selling my work, and having it out in the world. And the money I earn from this work goes right back into my art.

But art is my preoccupation, not my occupation.

Let’s revisit the question, “Do you make a living at this?”

Make a living.

I make art because the making of art makes my life better. It’s my joie de vivre, my joy of living. Art has saved my life, and at one point, was the antidote to suicide. Art gives me purpose, and it’s my preoccupation.

I will argues that I do make a living as an artist – I keep living my life. I’m literally making my life.

Make work as though no one is watching

Make things just for yourself, with no intention of sharing. Doing this regularly helps me connect with and express my authentic voice. It’s unselfconscious play.

It’s worth noticing what we’re attracted to. I used to collect images that inspired me—other artists’ work, design, images of 1950s ephemera, etc. I’ve got gigabytes of reference material. There’s a reason Pinterest is successful. The things that resonate with us say something about who we are. That can help us bring out our own voice.

Be so good they cannot ignore you

I heard Steve Martin say this (I’m paraphrasing here):

“When someone asks me how do you make it in show business or whatever, how do you get an agent, I always say this: Be so good they can’t ignore you.”

~Steve Martin to Charlie Rose

I love that advice, and it makes sense.

Conclusion

I hope this was helpful, or at least interesting to you. Writing these things down helps me organize my own thoughts, and lets me inventory some of the things I’ve learned.

Keep going! I will, too.

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The Labors of Love: Drawing

Back in 2008, I started a sketchblog on a domain that I no longer own. The original post is still on this site, and I imported the drawings that I had publicly shared into this blog after I stopped using that site.

I started drawing as a little boy. Obviously, I still draw. I say obviously more to myself than you, as there were great stretches of time when I did not regularly draw. Up to today, however, I have been drawing regularly since 2007.

When I was a child, adults tended to tell children that they could become anything they wanted to be when they “grew up.” My initial answer to that question was that I wanted to be any of the following:

  1. An automobile, or
  2. A 50′ tall skeleton

This was followed briefly by wanted to be bionic, and failing that, a giant robot. A little later, when I had a better understanding of the assignment, I knew that I wanted to be “an artist.”

I went through three distinct artistic periods of development as a youngster. Originally, I wanted to draw things and be a visual artist. I drew all the time – in notebooks, textbooks, on the backs of placemats in restaurants that used paper placemats, and on the backs of my dad’s old office documents.

The other periods that followed: I wanted to be a writer. I discovered my love of books thanks to The Hobbit, which I devoured in 6th grade. Inspired by weekend games of Dungeons and Dragons, I wrote fantasy and horror stories. I won a middle school writing contest, and was sent to a “Gifted and Talented” creative writing camp at St. Mary’s College the summer after 8th grade. I believe it was my college essay submitted with my application to Washington College that opened that door for me. It certainly wasn’t my high school academic performance.

My creative ambition then shifted into music, which I’ve written about extensively elsewhere on this site. I’ve been playing drums since my early days in elementary school, but I became more interested in music as a social passport in middle/high school.

I’ve carried these disciplines with me through life, and I came to learn early in my adult life that they are all the same thing. Which is to say, the modalities and final output might be different, but my core approach to them uses the same part of my thinking, and self.

My ability to write music, and frankly to understand any formal structures (music theory applied to composition, plot, visual composition, etc.) allowed me to quickly become good at making CAD drawings, to understand and work with complex relationships in database design, and to able to write programs in half a dozen computer languages. The periods when I was not actively drawing were offset by learning the magic of the Internet. Again, in my brain, it is all the same. Making an album is very similar to completing an animated story, or putting together a comic. All of this is similar to the complexity involved in making a website: gathering the content, designing a great experience for website visitors, writing the SQL queries and stored procedures to manage that data, monitoring the site’s usability, and maintaining the underlying technologies.

Returning to the topic of the sketchblog – when I wrapped that up in 2009, I had accomplished something. Aside from the several Moleskine notebooks I filled, I was empowered by the act of daily drawing, and had uncovered a new creative path to follow. Sometime after that, I started a daily photoblog, which I maintained for about two and half years. Again, I saw my daily life in a new way, and had a new appreciation for seeing my world. The output actually didn’t matter as much as the act of pausing in my day and just seeing (or, being present). During the pandemic, I began writing music everyday. Once again, I made key-to-me discoveries, and developed new approaches to music making that are vital to me now. I recommend this practice for anyone interested in any medium or modality.

In Rick Ruben’s excellent book The Creative Act, he suggests that ideas have a time, and when we encounter an idea, then that idea’s time has come. If we do not act upon that idea, someone else will.

Over the past 6 months, I keep bumping into and rubbing up against drawing. Certain themes and ideas keep jumping out at me, and I will not ignore them.

Reading Drawings

This title jumped out at me when we visited Second Story books, and I could see layers of meaning in it.

I intend to draw every day in 2025, but this is a slightly different pursuit than my first sketchblog. I’ll share more as it is revealed to me, but I wanted to put my intention down in writing here.

A final thought: kids know how to draw. Eventually, through their parents or society, they may come to believe that they cannot draw, and maybe they stop. This is a common scenario, and I can point at specific times this happened to me. I became self-conscious and, in turn, self-critical— and not just of my drawings but of many other things. I’ve spent the past few years intentionally examining and pulling apart the “self-conscious + self-critical” knots on my self-imposed restraints. As the knots come loose, freedom and ease return, and space within myself becomes once again available. It’s the same space in which my younger self made unselfconscious drawings.

I’m going to use the tag dwgs for any work made as part of this campaign. My intuition is telling me that drawings will play an important part of 2025.

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The Labors of Love: Music

When I was a kid, MTV played music, and it was like a drug. After school, if I wasn’t working my dishwashing job, I’d have cable on hoping to see Stewart Copeland and the Police, or Van Halen. My mom worked in another city, and my dad had long since moved out. I’d watch some MTV, go play drums, watch MTV, go play drums.

We had a pretty decent radio station in Annapolis, which seemed aligned with solid college radio programming. You could hear roots rock, folk, classical Indian music, along with the Ian Dury & The Blockheads. This was a healthy counterbalance to MTV.

As a kid, I didn’t listen to Kiss. My neighbor had the four solo albums with the cool portraits, where each band member was outlined in a neon glow. Frankly, when he played Kiss, I didn’t understand it. It sounded abrasive to me, and not in a good way. To this day, I haven’t heard those records.

I listened to what we had in the house – classical, some Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa albums, Dixieland, even marches recorded by the Naval Academy Band. I also had a Vince Guaraldi record, and The Ventures doing TV theme songs. That Ventures record made a big, lasting impression on me.

One summer, an older guy in my neighborhood told me about the Beatles – Abby Road and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. My parents had those records, so I went home and listened to them. I played along with them on the drums. He also told me about Cheap Trick, and the Beatles’ obvious influence on them. The first record I ever bought with my own money was One on One.

A few years later, I got to see them play, and even met them. Robin Zander asked that the name of my high school band was (It was Aces High), and said “Man, that’s a cool name.” What a nice man.

Around this time, a friend in the neighborhood gave me a copy of Rush’s Moving Pictures. My friends all loved Rush, and I think I was a little late to that party (I missed out on A Farewell to Kings, 2112, etc.). I bought a cassette of Exit Stage Left, which was the latest Rush album, and that was my first rock concert. My Dad took me and my pal Hugh. We had just found our seats when Spirit of Radio came to life. I was stunned! It was wonderful.

I wasn’t a great student. My parents divorced, my mom was continually stressed out, angry and mostly absent. I don’t blame her, she did her best to keep us afloat, and wanted to make a new life for herself. This left me mostly unsupervised.

I worked my jobs, went to school, played in the marching band, and I had my own rock band. I remember it as a continual caffeine-withdrawal-headache-slog, and music was the thing that kept me going. Most of my friends were really good drummers, and we met through the marching band. We pushed each other to become better musicians, and this pursuit, I believe, kept me from falling into using drugs. Also, I hated drugs, and I didn’t have much money.

Being in a band was also a pass into other, remote social circles. We played at parties, and were able to pass through, and even be accepted by, other communities: the rich kids, the “burn-outs,” the jocks, pretty girls, etc.

I spent the money I made washing dishes on records and blank cassettes. My friend Hugh had a huge record collection and a nice stereo, and he used to let me make tapes from his albums. Neil did, too. My friends all had nice drum sets, and we were inspired to play Rush, The Police, Iron Maiden, and Van Halen. I was also lucky in that our pal Will had both a 4-track recorder, and a tascam 8-track at his house. This opened up avenues of composing that were not available to other kids. My band wrote and recorded an original called Only got eyes for you.

I’ve talked about my original drum set elsewhere, a blue sparkle Japanese no name with lauan shells (above, in my friend’s bedroom). No matter how much I improved, or implored my dad to get something else, he never sprung for an upgrade. Or drum lessons, for that matter. One summer, my neighbor and buddy Chip invited me to work at his dad’s business. I worked 4 ten hour days, starting at 5 am, and made more than twice minimum wage. I also washed dishes on the weekends. I worked very hard that summer, and I made some good money. Enough to spend $150 on a beat up Tama Imperial Star platina finished 5 piece drum set (the snare was actually a pearl snare) from my guitarist, Eric Lee. It had two open bottom concert toms. I bought Hugh’s rototoms from him for $75. I felt like I had arrived! I took those drums to college with me, and used them while touring with Bazooka Joe (but I switched to a 4 piece), and recording with Diana Froley. I still have the original kick and floor tom. During the pandemic, I picked up another 12″ tom, as well as a second kick and snare. That kit was unbelievably reliable and durable. It was probably the best $150 I ever spent on music.

One day, my buddy Tim made me a mix tape of punk music that he got from his brother J, and the world seemed to open up for me. The music was energetic, fun, clever, and it didn’t require fancy equipment or gear. If MTV offered the illusion of culture and music which was unattainable to an uncertain, self conscious teenager, then punk was pure possibility. We bought polyester pants and work shirts from thrift stores, we rode skateboards, and punk became the soundtracks to our lives.

I played with Tonie Joy a few times (we went to the same middle and high schools) and we had a band called the 100th monkey for about two weeks. I still have a recording of our practices somewhere. However, I was in college, and the commute to play with him was too much for a guy without a car. I liked him a lot.

Music was the thing that got me through college, and I wrote about that elsewhere, so I won’t recap here. I had a band, and we progressed from doing all covers to writing our own songs. We even rented a house together after college, although we disbanded the same year.

During my junior year, I helped a graduating senior with his theater project by writing the music for Sam Shepard’s The Tooth of Crime, and then performing it with a band I put together. Here are a couple of pics from the after party.

After I graduated, I spent about five years working in “the music industry.” I was a buyer for local independent record stores and a wholesale music “One Stop” that sold to smaller mom -n- pop stores. I also wrote reviews for a couple of local free music monthly papers.

Me as a buyer in a record store

Being a music buyer meant that I got a lot of promotional recordings – sometimes as many as 60 a week. I would listen to some of it, and I sold most of it at Soundgarden in Baltimore. That doubled my income, and allowed me to build my first recording studio in my home (The Dead Chicken Ranch). I also brushed against the rich and famous – literally – Joan Jett leaned against me when we had a photo taken. I met Bootsy Collins at work, and Yo-Yo Ma. Anthony Kiedis called me “Jim ska la Jim.” I had lunch with Dave Mustaine from Megadeth, and he turned out to be really nice. I got into many, many shows, and also had friends at record labels, like Skene! Records, East Side Digital, Sub Pop, and Amphetamine Reptile.

I also joined Baltimore’s Bazooka Joe, with Jeff Caplin AKA “Guppy” and the late Kenneth Stanley Bauer Jr AKA “Stork.” I was given the name “Doorjam” by my friends Skizz and Meatpole. I went to my Bazooka Joe interview, after answering a ad found in the Baltimore City Paper, and immediately hit it off with Guppy. He was mild mannered, sweet, and extremely intelligent. They gave me a copy of their Ep, Two-Thirds and I was hooked.

Guppy is brilliant. He had synthesized Thurston Moore with Hüsker Dü and sprinkled Coltrane on top. He and I shared an interest in dissonance, and the three of us recorded Imbalance. We played a lot of shows up and down the east coast. We played in Virginia Beach, Baltimore, the Black Cat in Washington D.C., NYU in New York City, the 8×10 in Baltimore, and Max’s on Broadway. We played at The Gas Station, a punk venue located inside a former gas station at 194 East 2nd Street in Manhattan just before GG Allin’s last show there.

I think Bazooka Joe (the iteration with me in it, anyway) only had one record in us, and we more or less nailed it. I got sober while with these guys, and as I grew into adulthood, the anger/disillusionment/angst was replaced with contentment, peace, ambition, and some wisdom. Guppy and I are still close, and hang out several times a year.

I was in a few other bands, too. I had a ball playing bass with my pals Meatpole and Skizz in Blister Freak Circus.

I played drums for a band called Honeypump. Christoph and Julia Green (guitar and bass respectively) were originally the Maryland Stawberries (or something). They were good, solid song writers, and we clicked. We made a demo with Tony French at the Hatfactory, and played with Circus Lupus, Jawbox and the Judy Bats. If I remember correctly, I quit the band, but I can’t remember the reason. I don’t think I left on good terms, though.

If either of the Greens every read this, I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you. You both were great, and I still like the recording we made. I hope you are still rocking!

I met a fellow named Patrick O’Donnell when I was an extra on the set of John Water’s Serial Mom. Pat started a label called Skoda Records, and “discovered” Diana Froley while mastering the Bazooka Joe album Imabalance. He gave mer her CD You’re Not Broke but I’m Going to Fix You and I was immediately charmed by her. We ended up helping her put out Pet My Kitty, Mr. New York City, which was recorded at the Dead Chicken Ranch. We also formed the first iteration of Diana Froley and Pajama Party, with Rupert Wondolowski on bass.

About the time I was playing with Diana Froley, I got a job at a local nursing home + geriatric hospital as an “expressive therapist.” Diana had a degree in Art Therapy, I think, and encouraged me. I will always be grateful to Diana.

My duties consisted of facilitating drumming, pottery and art making groups in various adult populations (Adult day care, dementia, psych and the ventilator unit). I also conducted Tai Chi lessons and taught breathing exercises to people weening of the ventilators. I learned two important lessons with that job.

  1. I was terrified when I accepted the position. I wasn’t trained as a therapist, and the ventilator unit scared me. It smelled horrible, and many of the people were very sick. It was one of the scariest undertakings, and, I did this job and succeeded. I learned that I can do just about anything I really want to do.
  2. I observed some incredible phenomena while at this job. I was meditating a great deal with my Tai Chi breathing classes and it did wonders for me. I came to view music in a new way, too, which removed the ego from music for me, and decreased my desire to perform. Here’s what happened.

I walked onto the dementia unit with all my drums, and distributed them among the residents. There was a new man there. A nurse told me his name, and we began tapping out the rhythm of his name as a pulse. “Jeff-reee Tom-as Sull-eye-van. Jeff-reee Tom-as Sull-eye-van. Jeff-reee Tom-as Sull-eye-van.” That wasn’t his real name, just an example I made up for this post.

The man began saying his name along with the group as we played together. At the end of the session, a colleague rushed up to me and asked “How did you do that??? He had a stroke six months ago, and hasn’t spoken since. He’s been working with a speech pathologist.”

I hadn’t done anything, except lead the group in some rhythmic exercises. But this man was able to respond to the rhythm, and it was the rhythm that helped him traverse some mental pathway that he was unable to access previously. I was as amazed as my colleague. It changed that way I think about music, too. It let me separate my ego from music itself. I suddenly became uninterested in performing, which was just as well. I had a family to support, and needed to develop a career. So, I stepped into technology.

In the late 90’s, I began experimenting with looping samples and found sounds. I made a few recordings, but after we moved out of Baltimore city, I stopped pursing music.

I played drums for Patrick O’Donnell on three of his recordings. We tracked the drums for Cold Drinks at Inner Ear in Virginia. I never charged Patrick for my services, but I did get about 17 minutes of drum time at Inner Ear. Chad Clark (Smart Went Crazy, Beauty Pill) was the engineer, and provided the stems. It was a big deal for me to record there, and spend time in the studio that so many people that I admire from Discord have recorded.

As my kids started getting older, I focused more on my career, and sort of lost the thread of music.

After a hiatus of almost a decade, my musical self began to awaken again. I’ve always said that:

“It all comes from the same place: Music Theory helps composition, music composition feels a lot like the creative parts of computer programming, developing software is a lot like writing songs, putting an album of songs together feels a lot like make an art exhibit, making a solo art show is like assembling an animation, finishing an animated film is a lot like writing a novel, and on it goes.”

~ Me

I bought a house in Baltimore City in 2016, and began the next wave of my musical journey. I developed an interest in signal processing, effects pedals, and several digital audio work stations (DAWs) for home recording. I joined a surf band for a while, and I released my own recordings. I make my own soundtracks for my films.

A lot of that is documented in this blog, but here’s the part I’ve been leading up to. It wasn’t until the pandemic area that I began to find the confidence to express my own voice. My voice has evolved since high school and Bazooka Joe, even though I had stopped using it.

It takes a long time to sound like you.

It sounds ridiculous to say that, and yet it’s very true. And it’s the most satisfying aspect of all this.

When I was in my undergraduate program, I had several music and art history classes that ran concurrently. Baroque music/art, twentieth century music/art, German Expressionist art/music, and so on. The parallels between music and art was stunning – culturally, aesthetically, and philosophically, all these thinkers tended to be grappling with the same things using different mediums. And when I widened my gaze to allow for literature and poetry, it was no surprise to find the same threads running through that work.

I’ve spent many years working on my visual art. Drawing, primarily, is expressed throughout this website. My dioramas are quiet, and can be pursued late at night in silence. While focusing on career, my art satisfied my creative needs. And yet, I suspect my musical sensibilities were continuing to develop. Just as it’s possible to see undeniable similarities between German Expressionist painting and German Expressionist opera, I’ve found the threads of me runs through my visual art, music and animation. So obvious, as it’s me that does these things, and “the way you do anything is the way you do everything.”

Of course, I have many influences in my musical DNA, starting with my Dad, my professor Garry Clarke, lessons with Billy Martin, and Steve Vai’s influence.

I’ve talked about some very influential recordings elsewhere. But having more time to experiment has opened up new avenues of composing and improvising. It really did take a long time to get here, and I’m glad that I did.

Thanks for reading.

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The Labors of Love: Animation

I started animating stuff back in 2001. I was working at a shop that needed a Flash developer to accompany their Director developer (software for making CD-ROMS). I liked Flash’s drawing interface, and I was able to quickly get a grip on ActionScript. When the iPhone came out, Flash lost favor and marketshare, and I stopped working with it. Flash finally died last year.

In 2016, I began animating again in earnest, this time using a DSLR on a camera stand to make stop motion. Sometimes, I drew on an iPad. I decided to focus my graduate school efforts on pursuing animation. I’m still putting down roots as an animator, and finding my way.

In 2020, I made eight animated films. They are all “shorts,” and they all took a long time to make. On more than several occasions, I would glance at the clock and see it was 2:00am, and I would wonder why I decided to undertake such a long, protracted project that asks for so much patience, concentration and focus.

Then, I’d finish the project, edit it, and publish the video. Soon, I’d forget all about what it took to make the film, and I’d start thinking about the next one.

A colleague warned me that it’s difficult to find festivals to show work. The competition is thick. Most festivals charge an application fee, which violates my rule of never paying to enter work for a show. It can get expensive. My pal Martha Colburn advised me to drop animation and just keep working on dioramas. Lucky for me, I ignored that advice.

I’ve had some luck. I checked a big item off my bucket list by having not one but two films in 2020’s Sweaty Eyeballs Animation Festival. I’ve had a few other screenings, too.

So, animation is expensive, both in terms of my time, and trying to find an audience. And what I’m doing is not likely to make money.

Why do it?

First, I don’t make art to make money. It’s delightful when someone buys something, for sure. Money is important. But having other sources of income lets me make the art I want to make, without the consideration of living off the proceeds of sales.

Second, I’m a storyteller, at heart. Animation has been a lovely addition to my artistic pursuits. I get to combine and incorporate many things I love into a single work: drawing, storytellings, puppets, writing, costumes, decor and sets, music and sound. Animators invent both technical and narrative solutions, while completing projects. There’s a kind of magic in thinking of something, giving it form in the world, and creating the illusion of life. Like Dr. Frankenstein. It’s challenging and rewarding.

While I was watching other animations at Sweaty Eyeballs, and listening to some of the animators talk, I was struck by the idea that animation is a lovely labor of love. Independent animation is a form where the animator has the complete freedom to make lots of decisions and choices about what to do. The end result can be a singular piece of work reflecting its creator in a way other forms do not, and it’s a form that, to me, inspires wonder.

I make these films because it’s fun to make them.

Opinion