Press enter or click to view image in full size

I Didn’t Go to Art School and I Think About It More Than I Admit

I used to draw to survive my childhood. Now I am learning it was never meant to stay behind. There was a time when my childhood bedroom wasn’t just a room—it was a refuge from the constant fighting and family trauma. My door would always be closed, and the noise of everything else stayed on the other side of that door. Angry voices, arguments over their relationship. Tension that never really had a name when you’re a kid until you got older and you start to pick things up. It’s just something you feel in your chest and try to outrun for the rest of your life.
So I drew in my closet. Most children had clothes or spare toys. Mine was a workshop. I had a table in there and paintbrushes. Lights and the works. It was the only place things made sense in our home. My pencils scattered across the floor. Papers stacked in uneven piles. Half-finished characters staring back at me like they were waiting for me to finish telling their story. I would sit for hours, completely gone from the world outside my room. Building something quiet inside that chaos. I would paint characters and make hand-drawn animation. I would walk around near the cemetery and library with a sketch pad and draw what inspired me. I would watch how the leaves blew and take it back to my makeshift studio and draw them. Frame by frame, slow and imperfect, but it was mine. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t care. It felt like purpose. A place where there was no fighting.
Somewhere in that same season, I wrote a letter to Hayao Miyazaki. I never sent it and actually still have it. In my mind as a kid sitting in a small room, believing at least for a moment that his art could reach someone across the world who made films that felt like home. Films that were soft, but strong. Quiet, but powerful. The kind of stories that made you feel seen without saying much at all.
Looking back, I used to regret something. The regret of not going to art school. My parents felt they wanted me to stay close. I was so invested, yet went to a local community college that I dropped out of due to required public speaking. At that time I was very shy and did not like presentations and speaking up front. So I dropped that class one day after the drop-off date and they charged me for it. My family wasn't very happy and it made me feel that I would never be successful without a college degree. To be fair, they were just looking out for me and my best future.
My stepdad was the kind of guy that was a great provider. Yet he would never let you forget what you did wrong. I remember as a kid doing something wrong—he always reminded you five years later what it was you did wrong, literally. He had another woman he lived with while he was with my mom. They had my brother, yet she didn’t know about the other woman until that happened. So they would always be fighting everyday about all these things and stuff. One day he would come by happy, then snap. He was great at manipulation and would add you into their fights and ask you questions, and even call our Mom curse words all the time. A lot of stories, yet too long to talk about.
I remember high school graduation and at the end everyone was walking out smiling and finding their parents. Happy and celebrating. I looked around and around and they were in the car fighting. I believe they were trying to beat the crowd, and I understand that, but I’ll never forget that moment that was stolen from me. My heart was so hurt on that car ride home.
Anyways, art was so into my life. I remember he took me to see his buddy, a tattoo artist. He asked me to draw stuff and made fun of me afterwards. So I decided to work harder and harder at art. I would build and modify tattoo machines just for fun. Do elaborate dragons to whatever I was feeling at the time.
There was a funny moment in high school. I was in art class and there was a student teacher. The kid next to me was kinda preppy and all that and a bag of potato chips. Rich dad, most likely. So he drew all this elegant art and the teacher always stopped to admire his work. The student teacher. So I decided one project to get back at him. I drew a pastel castle with a werewolf eating a human in his mouth, full of blood and bones and a half-eaten body. He stopped and just gave me a look of disappointment. It was so great and made my whole semester.
I'm sure I was the weird kid, but being unique to yourself is always best. If I really think about it now at thirty-three, I'm happy I didn't go to art school. I would have never met my wife and had my three children. It seems even now that God has a plan for all of us. I think the message I am trying to show is: no matter where you're at in life or your past experiences, God has you where you need to be. Call it whatever you want, but life always seems to work itself out. Thanks for hearing my short memories I had as an artist today. God bless.