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The Big Circle....
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(Warning: This week’s commentary reads like a poorly drafted novel drawn up by a thousand typing monkeys. As a result, it is quite lengthy.)
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If you're not careful, life will come back and bite you in the ass. History repeats itself folks and it's important to make sure you take the time to step back and watch yourself. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that nonsense, but only if you pay attention. So, now that I've used a lot of unnecessary cliché’s to begin this week's topic, I'd like to bring you all a little closer into my tiny, marble sized world.
Lets join professor Peabody and Sherman and step into the Way-Back Machine. Destination - 1995. (I think? I'm expecting corrections from those of you who lived this time with me. As many of you know - never trust me on dates, math or with punch lines.)
It was the year of years. I was a happy little college student learning as much as I could between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00. It was that year I was totally juiced for school. I had signed up for Advanced Illustration - my major. It was to be the cornerstone of my education. A real building block, not just for my portfolio, but for my knowledge base as well. (Yes, I really believed this.) And so, upon learning that I was not to have the professor I signed up for, but some other guy, I tried not to take it to hard. “Dan Howe” – the Syllabus read. Humf. I was sure whoever the school had picked would be an adequate teacher. Oh, how naïve the young can be. Little did I know, that I was about to find my first arch nemesis…. And at the ripe age of 20!
Now, please understand that I’m trying to keep this from being too much like “Chad is Stooopid,” (See Weekly Commentary Archives.) but the hostility I have for this man is something that needs to be explained. I guess it begins like this:
There are many schools of thought for any field of study, many disciplines one can follow and many doctrines to pursue. However, in this tiny man’s school of thought, he didn't want me to be a student… and I assure you, the feeling was mutual. From day one we were at odds and our “confrontations” became somewhat legendary. He was a horses ass and being the shy, delicate, flower that I am, I let him know it. One such battle was over the lesson plan of “perspective drawing” and it’s fundamentals. Now, for those of you who don’t know what the heck-a-doodle I’m referring to, let me explain. (I’ll refrain from my Webster’s definition, for it confuses even me. Perspective: drawing in perspective – yeah, that’s really useful.)
In short, perspective is an artistic technique developed to help define a three dimensional world on a two dimensional plane. Or – to help show a “3D” car or house or whatever - on a piece of paper. There are many different approaches and styles in this technique, but it really boils down to this. There is the fine artist’s approach, which uses perspective as a “guide” for defining space and there is the architect’s method which uses a very mathematical approach to defining exact spaces for building and constructing purposes. There are some muddy spaces in-between that I won’t get into, but that is basically where our arguments began. That and his righteous belief that everyone but him was unable to grasp the concepts and mysteries held within said technique. (If you’re wondering which side of the fence I was on, see the apology in paragraph two.)
To say that this class sucked more than a Blackula, Battlefield Earth double feature is an understatement. However, it gets worse. I had this same guy for another class – Life Drawing, which, coincidently, immediately followed Advanced Illustration. Yep, that’s right, I had this Ass Clown for a prof. for six hours straight twice a week. If there is a hell, I‘m sure I visited it during that time period. Because, as many of you know, Life Drawing is time for an artist to study the nude figure. Now, figure drawing is what I love, it’s why I got into art in the first place, and, I won’t lie to you, sometimes you get to draw really hot chicks too, and that is way cool. But, having this sexist, egotistical, bigoted, fascist, art nazi dominate over me and dictate the smallest of my movements and attitudes, raped me of any pleasure or learning experience that I could have had during this time.
As a result I vented my deep frustrations at a weekly house party, that, fortunately, started immediately following my last nazi class of the week. To say I got hammered is an understatement. To say that I behaved in an infantile manner and made many people the subject of my bathroom humor would be, well, relatively accurate. They are some of my fondest memories of UWSP and I am thankful to the members of that house that needed to money from selling cheap beer and jello shots. On your deathbeds, may you gain utter and complete consciousness.
Okay, now lets travel up to about a month ago. I got set up on a blind date. This was a really nice gesture, for, my current dating slump is becoming the butt of a lot of jokes lately. (May strangers cast horrible glances at you and may your ice cream always be served warm.) So, quite eagerly I went on this date and met the young lass at a local pub. Well, when I gazed upon her I was horrified. It wasn’t because she was an obnoxiously hideous, bitch-hobgoblin, quite the contrary; she’s a very peasant and attractive woman. I was mortified because I had met this young lady before. I had met her back at those house parties where I had been known to fart mysteriously in the crowd and point at idiot and savant next to me. I had met her with gallons of beer stains on my shirt and in my hair. I had met her because I am quite sure that I had tried to pick her up on more than one occasion at those parties… with the cigarette in my mouth, an undecipherable beer lisp and a half dozen booze hounds cheering me on. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, the date didn’t go well. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t stop remembering the horrible things I might have said, maybe it’s because we just didn’t really mesh, or maybe it’s because I really am a doofuss. My money’s on the later.
But, the story, and the strange, unexplainable coincidences continue. This past Tuesday I returned home from an afternoon of fishing and a quick stop by the book store. As I usually do, I grabbed a Coke and headed up to check my email. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but I got an email from an old college friend… Who also happened to take that series of dreadful classes. And how did he sign his email… “Dan Howe’s left nut.” I giggled a little at the mention of the nazi man and then wrote him a quick response. Then I reached into my Border’s Book bag and got out my recent purchase. Well, wouldn’t you know it, I had just bought a book called, “Perspective! For Comic Book Artists.” Damn you, Dan Howe! Damn you all to hell! (Best read like in Planet of the Apes.)
So, what are we to learn from all of this. Why did I ramble on for so long about this crap. Well, for one, to show you all that your past has a way of creeping up on you. Usually in the most unlikely of places. It doesn’t matter what you do during the day, it effects other people, and those people always have a way of working their lives back into yours. Even the bad professor who wanted you to spend time figuring out the area in square footage of an MC Escher building. ( E2=MC Escher2? ) Even the girl you obnoxiously hit on while in a dazed alcoholic catatonia. Life is a funny little circle or yo-yo or boomerang - or whatever metaphor you want to use. (Just use one that comes back… unlike my old dog Sasha. She ran away constantly and didn’t fetch for shit.) Everything you do comes back, and lately, I’ve been finding out the hard way. So, it’s important to, throughout your day and throughout your life, step back and gain some distance from your life and your behaviors. After all, a little perspective on the situation never killed anyone.
*Look for Mr. Sweeney's article "Sharpening Your Point" later this week.
**The opinions expressed in Weekly Commentary are those of Mr. Sweeney and his alone. Any attempt at finding sanity or logic in his rantings are feeble, at best.
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