Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk

Both of my parents were artists, who were somewhat frustrated since they had kids so young. My Dad started art school, and wound up in drafting, since he was being pushed to be practical because of the kids. He still makes stuff -- mostly he's a carpenter, he carves the most incredible guns, of all things, carves mantlepieces, but only for hire. Never, it seems, for himself.

My Mom, on the other hand, had incredible promise. I have some of her drawings from the '50's when she was 16, they are remarkably unique, with a strong style of her own. When people look at what she did in the '60's & '70's, they see this very paisley-like, detailed style that became popular during that time, but she was doing it long before it was in the mainstream, just naturally.

When I was a kid, my Mother painted every day at the kitchen table, and packed it up when I came home from school. She had a solo show at a prominent art center when I was about 7, had a good gallery, and was starting to sell. Unfortunately, when my parents divorced, she couldn't handle being a single working Mother and an artist, so she gave it up completely. I've tried to encourage her, but she doesn't want to do anything but what she did before, and her hand shakes too much to do it. Plus she's lost confidence (and in my snotty teenaged years I'm afraid I may have contributed to that, a crime I've tried endlessly to make up for).

I was always an artist. I'm surprised I didn't come out of the womb clutching a pencil. I drew constantly, stole my Mom's paints, made things all the time. My teachers began telling my parents I had talent in pre-school, but they already knew. I got art supplies for every birthday, and was in my first art show with my Mom at 5.

You'd think that's the heavenly upbringing for an artist, that would result in no issues, but not really so. I was as interested in music as art, but since my brothers had both earlier abandoned their expensive instruments, my parents wouldn't let me play anything. So of course, the drive to be a musician overcame the drive to be an artist out of sheer rebellion. I bought my first guitar with my own money in 9th grade, and played in punk rock bands after high school. My parents had pressured me so much to be an artist (to make up for what they had sacrificed, I now realize) that it was the last thing I wanted to do.

But all through those days, I still made art, drew comics, wrote 'zines...I found my outlet mostly in painting t-shirts and friends' leather jackets. I couldn't stop making art if I tried, and eventually it won out, as I practiced less and painted more.

Both of my parents encouraged me to have a practical skill, though, which I wrongly poo-pooed. My Mother constantly told me how hard it was to make a living as an artist, and like most kids, I ignored her.

The funny thing about pressure from parents, whether it's encouraging or discouraging, is that it always seems to backfire, at least for awhile. I think my parents recognized that I was an artist and tried to nurture that, but there was always an awareness for me of what they had given up, which instilled a huge dose of fear about following the same path. I always feel like if I give up, I'll be destroying their legacy, since I haven't ever bothered with the whole having kids thing.

Today my Mom is my biggest fan, and her apartment is full of my artwork. She comes to all my openings, my friends all know her, and she gives a damned fine critique, too. My Dad doesn't really get my stuff and wishes I'd go back to drawing horses, and doesn't go to many of my shows (I think he's afraid to thanks to some of my younger, more radical work), but is always encouraging and willing to help me build things when my carpentry skills aren't up to snuff. I don't think either of them realize what an impact they had on me by giving up what they really wanted to do.