August 13, 2002
a mind of her own
After reading a spate of entries about blogging, the whys and hows, I got to wondering-- why do I keep an online journal, anyway?
It's not really to record my personal thoughts. I used to do that in a tree-and-ink one, but the results weren't very coherent. And paper journals can be discovered and read by family members. Easily, as I found out.
It's definitely not some kind of latent exhibitionism. Good grief, I don't give out even my real name on here, much less pictures and intimate details. The most intimate I get on here is random physical happenings, like the fact I lost five pounds this summer without really needing to or even realizing it until my mom commented that I was "getting skinny." I certainly don't give you the inside scoop on my mental state.
But in a sense, on the other hand, it is exhibitionist. It's the nature of an online journal. Why else would one put their thoughts in a place where, potentially, the entire world has access to them? Do I really write this journal, sit around composing my thoughts (usually not very well, as I realized while looking through some old journal archives earlier), because I think someone out there actually cares enough to read them? Am I writing for an audience that actually exists, or just one that I've deluded myself into believing exists to give myself a purpose in this?
Of course (warning: if you're in a good mood, turn back now), this brings me to one of my big faults. I never think that anything I write or draw or code or otherwise create is ever good. I can see the holes, the rough patches, the amateurish wobbles so glaringly, it's inconceivable to me that everyone else can't see them just as clearly. I never believe anyone who tells me something I do is good, because I know exactly how it's flawed. And I assume that there's even more flaws that aren't even a blip on my radar screen.
Ask Bridget sometime about the Dirt Painting. I whined for about three weeks straight about how ugly my painting was. Of course it was ugly. I was painting a picture of a patch of dirt. It wasn't even pretty dirt you oculd call "soil" or "loam." It was packed, cracked, dry, dusty Georgia red clay dirt. I'm still not sure why exactly I expected it to be non-ugly. I finally covered over it and did something else on to of it.
To this day, I have maybe four works of art-- including paintings, sculptures, stories, etc.-- that I think I could proudly admit I'd done. The rest I would be embarrassed to be seen in the same room with, because inevitably someone would say "Oh, that's so GOOD!" and I'd just have to pity the poor fool who couldn't see how UN-GOOD it really is.
It doesn't take much to discourage me. I can still recall one old guestbook entry from the early days of my personal site. It was from someone with her own domain (I remember exactly who it was, but I'm a nice person) who made some condescending comment about how my design skills would "improve" with time. Coming from someone who obviously had PhotoShop and other high-end graphics tools to play with, not to mention her OWN FRIKKIN DOMAIN, talking to someone on a freeserver working with MS Paint. And even though I know, by now, that my design skills have gotten better and I have some better programs to work with, that still stings, and I still cast a critical eye on all my layouts, thinking, "so, would this finally pass muster with [Critic X]?" I've been back to her domain several times, and frankly her designs could be summed up as "the bigger the images, the better," whereas I go for a simpler form-after-function philosophy most of the time. I don't know why I still care what she thinks. I shouldn't. But I do.
I also hate looking at other peoples' art sections. Most of the time, I'll run into the usual sections with one or two PhotoShop collages and maybe a scanned doodle or two. And I'll feel a little better about myself, for a while, because at least I can draw my thumb and make it look like my thumb. And then I'll find some site with artwork that blows me away, and inevitably the artist will casually comment somewhere on the page that s/he does this for a "hobby." That's great. This person, who has more skill in his/her little finger than I have in my entire body, does it for fun, and I think I can do this for a career. I should save my time and money, forget AIUA, and just do something else, because heaven knows the art world doesn't need any more mediocre half-talents.
I think I've said that before.
It's not really to record my personal thoughts. I used to do that in a tree-and-ink one, but the results weren't very coherent. And paper journals can be discovered and read by family members. Easily, as I found out.
It's definitely not some kind of latent exhibitionism. Good grief, I don't give out even my real name on here, much less pictures and intimate details. The most intimate I get on here is random physical happenings, like the fact I lost five pounds this summer without really needing to or even realizing it until my mom commented that I was "getting skinny." I certainly don't give you the inside scoop on my mental state.
But in a sense, on the other hand, it is exhibitionist. It's the nature of an online journal. Why else would one put their thoughts in a place where, potentially, the entire world has access to them? Do I really write this journal, sit around composing my thoughts (usually not very well, as I realized while looking through some old journal archives earlier), because I think someone out there actually cares enough to read them? Am I writing for an audience that actually exists, or just one that I've deluded myself into believing exists to give myself a purpose in this?
Of course (warning: if you're in a good mood, turn back now), this brings me to one of my big faults. I never think that anything I write or draw or code or otherwise create is ever good. I can see the holes, the rough patches, the amateurish wobbles so glaringly, it's inconceivable to me that everyone else can't see them just as clearly. I never believe anyone who tells me something I do is good, because I know exactly how it's flawed. And I assume that there's even more flaws that aren't even a blip on my radar screen.
Ask Bridget sometime about the Dirt Painting. I whined for about three weeks straight about how ugly my painting was. Of course it was ugly. I was painting a picture of a patch of dirt. It wasn't even pretty dirt you oculd call "soil" or "loam." It was packed, cracked, dry, dusty Georgia red clay dirt. I'm still not sure why exactly I expected it to be non-ugly. I finally covered over it and did something else on to of it.
To this day, I have maybe four works of art-- including paintings, sculptures, stories, etc.-- that I think I could proudly admit I'd done. The rest I would be embarrassed to be seen in the same room with, because inevitably someone would say "Oh, that's so GOOD!" and I'd just have to pity the poor fool who couldn't see how UN-GOOD it really is.
It doesn't take much to discourage me. I can still recall one old guestbook entry from the early days of my personal site. It was from someone with her own domain (I remember exactly who it was, but I'm a nice person) who made some condescending comment about how my design skills would "improve" with time. Coming from someone who obviously had PhotoShop and other high-end graphics tools to play with, not to mention her OWN FRIKKIN DOMAIN, talking to someone on a freeserver working with MS Paint. And even though I know, by now, that my design skills have gotten better and I have some better programs to work with, that still stings, and I still cast a critical eye on all my layouts, thinking, "so, would this finally pass muster with [Critic X]?" I've been back to her domain several times, and frankly her designs could be summed up as "the bigger the images, the better," whereas I go for a simpler form-after-function philosophy most of the time. I don't know why I still care what she thinks. I shouldn't. But I do.
I also hate looking at other peoples' art sections. Most of the time, I'll run into the usual sections with one or two PhotoShop collages and maybe a scanned doodle or two. And I'll feel a little better about myself, for a while, because at least I can draw my thumb and make it look like my thumb. And then I'll find some site with artwork that blows me away, and inevitably the artist will casually comment somewhere on the page that s/he does this for a "hobby." That's great. This person, who has more skill in his/her little finger than I have in my entire body, does it for fun, and I think I can do this for a career. I should save my time and money, forget AIUA, and just do something else, because heaven knows the art world doesn't need any more mediocre half-talents.
I think I've said that before.
# posted by Liadan @ 4:48 PM 
