We'll Wish This Never Ends

Your take on leaving the good left undone makes me smile. It is quite refreshing to see something written in a humorous, light-hearted way rather once in a while.

"No matter how small, I still want to disturb the universe, even after I die, but it does not have to be a particularly large wave. The idea of producing ripples thanks to my passing does not appeal to me. I would prefer to make the waves directly."

If I understand you correctly, you and I have same perspectives then. I would rather affect people that matter in my life rather than people that I won't necessarily know in the generations that follow after my death.

Whenever someone asks me what I am going to be when I grow up, I reply I am going to an artist. During the duration of my childhood, I repeated this response so many times that it became a reflex. As a child, I never really questioned whether or not my statement’s validity. I just assumed that it was true because I was really good at drawing, at least in the eyes of my peers. Apparently, my adult counterparts loved the work I was churning out as well. As I earned an impressive streak of blue ribbons for my artwork, many people thought that art was the indisputable meaning of my life.

Back then, I only felt somewhat secure about the said statement. Even though everyone was perfectly satisfied with the quality of my artwork, I felt that I had excess potential I did not tap into. Was it the old, reused school art supplies that limited me? Perhaps. But more so than that was my inability to manipulate any art medium, good quality or not, to bend to my will. I was dreadfully clumsy and wasteful with my art supplies as a child (I still am, except at a lesser extent). Refining my work in the short time frame of one class period was also frustratingly restrictive. I felt like I was hanging up works in progress rather than finished pieces. During those monthly art history lessons, I look at the oil paintings of old masters, and wonder how long it would take to create masterpieces like them.

The environment I was in was like a double edged blade. Because many people praised my artistic talent, my passion for art continued. I convinced myself I wanted to be an artist because it seemed to be the perfect path for me. Simultaneously, because of the elementary and middle school art classes’ lowered standards, I found myself working far below the full extent of my own abilities for the sake of saving time and energy. Entering high school, I felt a growing apprehension of my fragilely constructed purpose in life being shattered by a harsher, more challenging reality.

Surprisingly, that reality check didn’t happen in on campus. Instead, I faced it outside of high school, albeit in a mellowed out manner. It came in the form of the Ryman Arts, an art program I took part in for one and a half years. At last, I thought, I would put my dedication to art to the test. Every Saturday morning, I commuted all the way down to USC just to get to class. I took pleasure in struggling for the first time in live model figure drawing classes. Every week, I was assigned homework which was critiqued the next week in class. Under the scrutiny of both peer and art instructor, I felt like I grew a lot as an aspiring artist the three semesters I was there.

Unfortunately, the less artistically inclined individuals that made up the majority of the class. Instructors, who I personally believe are dissatisfied with their class’s artwork, had to lower their own standards to accommodate for the slower, and quite frankly lazier students. By now though, I thought better than to let this kind of environment did not impede my artistic development. I figured that no matter where I went, I would always have to share the classroom with people less passionate about art than I was. If anything, this distinct separation from my less competitive classmates solidified my confidence of my identity as an artist.

Then, summer of my sophomore year, I finally opened my eyes. Enter my new art teacher: a blunt, cynical man. Now imagine him with a sledgehammer, poised to shatter my once unquestionable identity as an artist. That should give a pretty good idea of how I felt when I was at his class. I finally got the art education I was looking for, but my childhood clumsiness with art materials, ignored by many of my previous teachers, came back with a vengeance. In the form of chicken scratch pencil strokes and inaccurately proportioned drawings, it wreaked havoc upon my artwork. My teacher did not hesitate to point out--rather harshly, in front of the entire class--these embarrassing flaws. It was humiliating. It was frightening. But I still tried to endure it without complaint.

Blow after terrifying blow, I felt as if the meaning of my life I worked to construct over my entire lifetime was falling apart before my eyes. Frantically, I worked to improve by leaps in bounds in an attempt to mend my fractured identity. There were moments that I felt I could not take it anymore. At one point in time, my parents, once supportive of my artistic endeavors, began to waver in their commitment. Desperately, as I sought for some form of security, I turned to my previous, motherly art teacher for solace. The plan backfired; all I got from her was a look of pity, and a comment that my “dream was dead at such an early state in my life.” Combined with my art teacher’s constant criticism, I almost caved in. I improved beyond my personal expectations, but I paid that heavy price of almost losing my identity, my purpose in life.

Fortunately, my self-defeating thoughts did not get the best of me. Through all the bitter tears, I felt all the more entitled to be called an artist. As I faced these hardships on an weekly basis, I became desensitized enough to filter out the bitter tone of my art teacher’s constructive criticism. It was a difficult process, but I finally learned to accept hardships with grace. I eventually left that art class. Although I was very upset, I already had one foot out the door as the college application deadlines approached. I was reluctant, but I felt ready to move onto greater things beyond the doors of the art studio. Predictably, my progress declined as the workload decreased. What I got in return, however, compensated for this small loss. I began to understand the meaning of my life.

Taking a break from art gave me time to do little things. After my grandmother’s passing, I spent more time with my family. Reunited with my high school friends, I began talking with them in a less cynical manner. For the first time in months, I relearned how to smile genuinely. I came to realize that the meaning of my life does not necessarily dictate my lifestyle. I did not have to draw all the time. Nor do I have to make such large sacrifices in all other aspects of my life in the name of art. I create a balance between the two. It is not to say this will be easy, either. My dream to be an artist will always be questioned. Throughout my lifetime, I will be chasing this dream. Some times it will be cruelly snatched away, other times I will be able to clutch it close. I suppose that is the best part of being an artist. After all, not all people have dreams that come true multiple times.

Just because your father already went down that path doesn't mean you will follow it. Since you are conscious of your father's disillusionment, I believe you'll set your dreams and limits more realistically.

For instance, what do you define as "rich" and "powerful"? Does rich mean you are able to have a decent retirement fund, or that you make billions of dollars every year? Does powerful mean that people respect you, or that you control the people around you? (I personally hope it is the former answers rather than the latter.)