Quick post—I originally wrote this as a footnote to the previous post, but I thought I’d make it a separate entry instead, as it has some personal aspects that go on a bit of a tangent…
I’ve had a very spasmodic learning curve in terms of my artwork—and since the mid-’90s, I’ve mostly considered myself to be a writer who can draw a little.
Art-wise, I have often taken two steps forward and four steps back. It’s a pity. I could’ve been doing the quality of art I can produce today, 25-30 years ago… with the right approach and good, solid guidance & advice… I had neither, in spite of seeking out the counsel of a number of professional artists back in the early-to-mid-’90s, who were extremely unhelpful and dismissive. This was enormously dispiriting, and from the mid-’90s onwards, for roughly a decade, I did hardly any drawing at all.
When I started again in 2004, it was with a very primitive, back-to-basics mindset, building up a new approach almost from scratch, and since then I’ve drawn very much on an infrequent, on-and-off basis, sometimes putting down my pencils for months on end. At one point, I think I hardly drew again for a further two years.
I could have been a very good artist, I believe, but my trajectory took all the wrong turns. It really has been a squandered potential, and so—all joking aside—when people ignore or dismiss my stuff, or even call it amateurish crap (as mentioned in this post), it does pain me, simply because I know I had a clear chance to make it good—and I completely blew it.
So I still draw. And even in the last couple of years, although frankly I haven’t been doing much, I’ve still managed to improve in various ways. Too little, too late? Maybe. But generating any interest in my writing—which I feel is much, much better than my art—has proven to be an impossible task.
And here we are.