Steampunk Octopus....I really am that odd!

I'm married to an artist.
It's a wonderful and terrible thing.

 Wonderful because unlike all the men that have honored me with their love and patience over the years, he is the one who can understand me the best. He feels the siren call of our shared mistress. He isn't jealous of my art, my obsession, for he shares it. He speaks the language of children, as all artists do, and so we spend countless hours being silly and creative and we don't feel a bit bad about it. He is passionate, obstinate, and selfish. I am too. It's a match made in heaven.... and hell depending on who's looking.

Terrible because he is the single most devastating critic in my life. I so value him, so admire him, he has the power to destroy me with just a look, a sigh, or a word. And so often he does. But that isn't his fault. It's my own insecurity.

All artists are insecure. Even the arrogant ones....especially the arrogant ones. It's the driving force behind our perfectionism. So many of us are seeking to validate ourselves...carve a piece of immortality and be remembered for something. It's a need that pulls the creativity from us. I think of us as the children that never outgrew the need to see our work proudly displayed on the kitchen fridge. 

I digress.... anyway...back to Trevor the destroyer..(heheh, he'll love that) and the relevance to the blog at hand.. Lately I've been seeking to find the type of mark I want to make in this world. The art that I want to be remembered for. Style is often the topic of much frustration among artists. It's the thing that we seek to find... a cohesive visual language that binds all our work together...makes it unique to us. The language I've been working on is a cross between surrealism, fantasy, whimsy, and bit of editorial. I like the work of the old masters with an edge and more of a childlike bent. I want texture. I want collage. I want it all. Actually truth be told, I don't know what the hell I want. But I figure I'll know it when I see it. When I look at my work and I want to buy it. 

So I do this painting at one of my live paintings, a steam punk octopus....and I love it. So does Trevor...at first. So here I am glowing. I am on the fridge with a big fat A+ plastered in the center. But it isn't finished. So I work on it... and work on it...damn it's detailed ...but after much griping and work, it's done. And I'm on cloud nine. It's exactly how I envisioned it. But the snag is... Trev isn't as enamored with it anymore. It's darker than it was... less whimsical... less cartoonish. It's off the fridge. 


Now what? This has happened before...ironically with my second favorite painting... the bee painting, "The Becoming".  I love it. He doesn't. It's becoming glaringly apparent that our tastes have found a divide. And I think this is a new turning point in my mental state. It's time to grow up. I've outgrown the fridge. I need to realize that this new leg of my journey is far too personal to look to others for validation. That needs to come from within. So it's okay that my wonderful Trevor doesn't always agree with me.... he's still the best friend that I could ever ask for. He might not be able to hold my hand from here on in.... but he's always there to break my fall..with silliness and a million kisses.  The benefit of marrying an artist...