give it away

When I met with the director of undergraduate admissions at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago-- when I showed him some of my work-- he took interest in the fact that I gave most of my favorite work away. He said there was something to that.

And that has bugged me for some time; I hadn't been able to really figure out why I gave away the things I'm most proud of.

Staying at my dad's house this weekend, I've seen various pieces of metalwork I've done over the years which I had either sold to him (because he wanted to pay me for them) or given to him as gifts. Part of what kills me about seeing these things is knowing that he liked them so much and was so proud of me that he wanted to keep them. He even wears a ring I cast (four, five years ago now?) every day.

But what I've realized is that I give these things away because having them around reminds me of happier times and of the things I was once capable of creating. Because of a lack of materials or workspace or the fact that I work full-time at dead-end jobs-- and for a thousand other reasons-- I can't produce like I used to.

And for some reason, I am also afraid to create anything. Keeping my past creations away from me lowers the standard and the level of pressure, in a sense; it makes it easier for me to forget, let go, move on. It makes growing up and growing weary and growing sad easier.

If I keep anything I've created, I will do one of the following things: I will give it away; I will throw it away; I will change it; I will paint over it (and be disappointed); I will destroy it in any manner I can. These things are at once a mirror of my self and a window into the past. They measure just how far I've strayed from the path I wanted to be on. They measure my loss. They mock me.

The few pieces I still have gather dust-- and they have either been painted over, torn up and thrown away-- or they have tarnished and corroded and been bent out of shape. They were things that I was once so proud of. They are my highschool yearbook; they are the infamous "skinny jeans"; they are evidence I need to get rid of.

They are also pieces of myself which I give away in the hopes that they will be better cared for and better appreciated than they might be in my possession.

I can see myself in the still-reflective surfaces of some of the things I made my dad (incense burner, metal-box-turned-votive-holder). I don't like what I see. I never like what I see.

But the fact that I'm too blocked up and fucked up to make anything new that I can be equally as proud of-- it makes me so sad.