Artist Pangs

I was sitting here wondering what kind of book I would write if I ever tried to write one. What would I like to say that is what I consider the essence of how I feel? I poured a lot of myself into this, and I tried very hard to remain concise and honest, so please, read it. What I have written below is intended to spur thought and hopefully share something with you, the greatest people on the planet, my friends. I've not edited the piece much, just kind of winged it in one go. I hope you enjoy.
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I have friends who I would not consider the creative types. At least not in the usual sense. They have their various talents and may be a genius at taxes, Madden football or mathematics. I would say I am categorically a genius at none of those. What I will say for myself is that I am an artistically creative person, which is hard to be a genius in when being one is mostly a matter of taste. However, I do know it's the only thing I've ever shown any kind of real interest in.

There is a horrible lie going around however that being creative, having ideas and making art is an enjoyable process. If you've ever tried to film something in a serious sense, you know good and well it has the capacity to cause ulcers and fits of panic. While even God reveled in his creation, we all know the best part of a day of work is going home and doing other things, reflecting on what has been achiieved, and ultimately, loafing around.

Still, being creative has an even deeper level of heartache and that is having ideas with no outlet. Say you've not got the money, the supplies, the time, or worse, the talent, to see your works transpire. You sit with these ideas in your head. As Matthew Barney's Cremaster Cycle 1 depicts, the swirling of new ideas is a very romantic time for the artist. They are able to love this new friend. Like a tiny kitten, our idea is unformed, immensely charming and incredibly untamed.

Each project evolves at its own pace. While I have seen some projects come into fruition, evolve and die off, some have never left my brain. We may draw concept sketches, story boards, write character bios, maybe even write scripts or short stories. However, you will always know when a project is unfinished, and it will stare you in the eye like that classic novel you've put off in favor of flashier writers, the internet or plain laziness.

Stagnation can occur and there is a troublesome aire of doubt in the mind. This is a very difficult time for an artist. A project can be lost forever in this inactive state. There are many kinds of death an artist can experience in this moment. However, there are many different tools to fixing said problems.

When asking myself what I would like to tell the world if I was dead, and had some sort of legacy I wanted to be remembered by, my mind took me in a surprizing place. I've often thought myself crazy or stupid to continue believing in myself. Many of my friends before me have given up on their dreams and become hair dressers, military grunts, drug addicts or full time parents. I'm not saying these are lowly stations in life, but if you were to ask their five year old self what they wanted to be when they grew up, it wasn't a massage therapist, it was probably more along the lines of an astronaut, an actress or a comic book artist, and why not?

So if I had a legacy to leave behind, it would be one of hard headedness. That is my talent- I don't know when to quit. And lets look at how I am doing so far mkay?

I wanted to be a comic book artist- well I drew a webcomic for a couple years. I should probably do another one, but that's closer than nothing. I always wanted to make films. Well, I went to film school and made a few short films, I'd say that's also closer than nothing. Are these examples my ideal? Are they perfect? No. I will say this though, they feel a hell of a lot more satifying than how I felt when I almost joined the army back in high school.

Even then, even when I knew I wasn't going to graduate, I knew I had more options than the army, I knew there had to be something for me. Sometimes I do wonder if my life would be better had I taken a career in the army, but I do know that my personal life would also be a lot different now.

Our successes as artists are important, but also knowing the person we are is just as important. I can't say joining a branch of the military would have effected this in a bad way, but I always wanted to be a girl, even when I was a little boy. Here I am now, currently, doing just that.

So I wanted to meet David Lynch, I did on a few occasions. I wanted to go to college, I went to two. I wanted to learn film, I did. My debt is a thing to behold and my college is yet to be finished, but I have done these things and I have done so by avoiding the small deaths that stack up and trick you into settling.

Each life choice we make will take us where we need to be, but lets not cash our chips in just yet. Because sometimes pregnancy is a surprise, sometimes illness is unavoidable, sometimes, life happens. Our lives always have meaning and are always open to change, it's when we stop believing in change that we start dying. Which brings me to the first little death.

As a transgender person, I often times meet a lot of girls who say they can only crossdress because they have children. As an artist I hear people say they can't persue a life as an artist because they have to take care of a dying mother. Hogwash.

This concept of obligations to our loved ones is not one of love, but rather one of rationalizing fear of failure. Why can't you paint when your mother sleeps? Isn't your passion worth it to you to sacrifice sleep? Is it truly the lesson we want to teach our children that we chose the person we are by its convenience and comfort? Isn't the best gift you can give a child a voice of individuality?

This segues into the next death which is a massive pang in artistic growth. Personal doubt. We look at ourselves and say "Do I even have the talent?" We look at a master sculpture and we lose our vigor. With egos deflated we tell ourselves we are no good.

It is wonderful to be rewarded for our work. We get a pat on the head, we get a gold star, and mom puts it on the fridge for company to see. Our first patron. As nice as accolades are, wasn't it nice just to get your hands dirty and work something out of your head?

Look at that master painting, look at that cinematic breakthrough and stop trembling. While some people are blessed with raw, supernatural levels of talent, most of them have one thing in common- sacrifice. They offered up their time, money, sleep, health, better judgement, comfort, happiness, and maybe even their sanity, for something greater. For every great piece of art, are hours of trial and error. The sacrifice is of course worth it, because the hope is that the payoff will ammount to the biggest gift of all- self reflection.

What is self realization but one of the greatest success stories of all time? What is great piece of art but a form of pure self expression?

So raise your children, hold your mother's hand, but do it without losing who you are. Being an artist for pure satisfaction is gluttony. You must throw yourself in the kiln as well. You must be willing to give up who you are for the greater good. What good are you to your audience if who you are is a fraction of who you could become? Your offspring have little chance at survival. Your spiritual death is nigh unavoidable without self reflection, perserverence and self sacrifice. What you do and say is no longer yours when it is in the collective consciousness.

So lets roll back a little. We are all now beefcakes of artistry ready to hand any critic their ass because we have self awareness embedded in our work. Lets now get busy. Buuuuut... nothing is coming out. Shit. Blocked.

What I like to do when the little death of creativity hits is to step away from the project. There are many methods to do this.

Art like life, as we can probably all agree, is best when spontaneous. When those ideas hit, those which we fall in love with like that baby kitten, we are enamored with our gift. This idea has floated from out of the sky. We are dead to the world and unraveling the mysteries of this part of ourselves that seemingly came from nowhere, but must have always been there because being ourselves is all we have known.

We have this Peter Pan happy thought magic and that's exactly what it is. Nobody has to tell you that girl at the party last night was amazingly gorgeous, it was native to you. You we compelled and drawn to the dark orbs in her eyes like an oasis sweltering in tropical bliss. And like a good joke, it would have been terrible to know the reasons by explanation. You are not going to squeeze water from a rock.

When you are blocked, stop trying. Write whatever crap is in your head and unravel the ball of spastic doubt and laziness that is keeping your pen or throw wheel from becoming a slave to your will. It is a choice to be good at something, pure and simple. When you are trying to be good, you will be terrible, when you are discovering yourself, you will inspire.

Creation and change must be interesting, when it becomes a chore, it dies a slow death in the heart. There are many ways to make what you do more interesting. I'd say the best thing you can do is impose a better challenge upon yourself than the challenge of artist's block.

Sometimes when I put pen to paper, my hand will draw the same line it always does and the same types of doodles come out. For me it's an insane, pinheaded individual in a polo shirt with some sort of strange growth. This must be my id's signature. I like seeing him, and that initial weirdo is sometimes good to get out of my system. While I may not know exactly what I am drawing, I do always place one restriction upon myself in doing so- try to draw something different every time I draw a line.
Another good restriction is making yourself work with others. The input of a person can spur millions of ideas and be very rewarding, challenging, and can make or break a friendship. Part of this interaction could also be the formation of a new project, or even a personal side project.

Keep your mind active, never centrally focus on one work. Step away from the table. Eat well. Have a social life. Work hard. Give your time to others. Be selfless. Take the time to be self absorbed and give your work true thought. You will not remain blocked forever, you will experience days of blandness and days of obscene creativity. You must sojourn through it all and never call it quits.

I have a project that has been on the back burner for four years. I still nurture it, discover new ideas and ultimately keep it alive sometimes just by creating new concept drawings for it. I am comfortable with its pace, all the while my skin is crawling with the desire to see it into fruition. However, I have to remember my own advice at all times. We know not to compare our success with others. We know to view every masterpiece as a sum of many parts- time, education, observation, practice, experimentation, determination and love. Even Jackson Pollack with his furious slashes of paint had to discover his style.
Style is the next small death. It is very similar to the small death of feeling overwhelmed by the achievements of others in that it is based mostly in comparing your unformed clay to the hall of realized potential.

As a filmmaker I look at Stanley Kubrick and never want to touch a camera again. He's got film covered forever, nothing more need be said. Nothing more that is, if you are Stanley Kubrick. Sometimes I will see a trailer to a movie and say "Damn, I wish I would have thought of that." But you know what? I realized I truly don't. If you thought of every great idea yourself, how boring would art be? How awful would a trip to the movies be?

I may not have David Lynch's style, but I have my style, and my worldview. I have my past. David Lynch didn't drive home from a rave called Christmas Massacre in a k-hole, I did. I'm not sure if I would ever put that into a movie, but your personality is your style. And while your personality is the sum of an untraceable number of parts, it is individual, it is great, it is yours. Don't copy Tim Burton, don't mimic Marina Abromovich, they aren't you, and they would suck at trying to be you just as much as you suck trying to be them.

So if we're going for legacy here, and I must paraphrase my message in its essence I part with this- There is nothing wrong with being hardheaded when your central goal is to continuously grow and develop as a person and/or artist. See every one of your setbacks, every regret, every lapse in humanity, every achievement in the same light. Allow yourself to learn from the big and the small, the bad and the good. Be honest at all times unless it's the police.  Don't give up on who you are, because nobody else is going to be you for you. You may not become your idols, you may become something better. You may become nothing at all, or die tomorrow, but if you never give up on yourself, you'll have a richer life. After all, if I am truly wrong, the army is looking for a few good men.
-Natalie Sharp out. xoxo

Vagerna Monologue

My belly button is an innie
My vagina is an outie

Maybe if I were to pull really hard, they'd trade.

My vagina is like a caterpillar
And sometimes, it contemplates the cocoon.
And when it breaks out, splaying open
A beautiful butterfly

I just don't know.
Is that what I want?
Is this hesitation?
Gestation?

So many milestones on this journey
This path has destroyed my former self
My flaws have been placed under a microscope
Like a butterfly with its wings pinned back

I have no more personal space.
Everyone wants to know about my vagina.
They want to know if I top.
They want to know if I'm going to keep "it."

Hi, my name is Betty, ask me about my grandkids.
Hi, my name is Joe, ask me about my business.
Hi, my name is Natalie, ask me about my genitals.

GREAT to meet you. Truly.

I just don't know.

Sometimes after a long day of walking, tucked in
Feeling like a fat man with his stomach sucked in
I could really do without

These panties really weren't made for girls like me.
This dress won't be in my size, I've grown to accept it.
I nod knowingly at my sisters in the size 12 isle at Payless shoes.
But truly, my toes have it easier than my vagina.

When she finally gets a moment free from constriction
She needs to get out and stretch
Like a family on a road trip, pulled over at a gas station
The open air, infinitely preferable to that cramped rental

I nod knowingly at my sisters who complain about cramps.

When she's not cramping, or hidden away, sometimes she plays.
I've managed to reconcile with her when she plays with other girls.
But when she's doing what she does, in her manly glory
She sends me mixed signals
I, but, she... we... what the fuck am I doing?
I should be down there.

So yeah, she and I have a confusing relationship.
She brings me tons of unwarranted attention
Plenty of discomfort
She sometimes gets excited, when she really shouldn't
She's not what most men or women look for in a vagina
But she's what I have.
I'm comfortable enough to work with her.
She still feels pleasure.
She still gives pleasure.
She's my little fuck up.
So I call her Princess, because regardless of what kind of vagina she is
She's special to me.