As much as I find writing about myself to be a bit of a bore and chore, the question I get asked the most is how this all started. So, I thought I’d make a post about this so that it’s written down once and for all. This will be broken down into 2-3 chapters.
In the beginning…
Although I don’t consider myself a victim of my circumstances because I have overcome them, I did have something of a rough start in life by any standards (as my younger sister’s therapist said, like a tragic Russian novel). My childhood was at best a mix, to put it mildly. Although I was incredibly fortunate to grow up in the stunning setting of New England (I grew up between Vermont, Rhode Island and New Hampshire), I was unfortunate enough to be the mostly ignored middle sibling in an extremely dysfunctional, abusive and classically cold Waspy New England family. IYKYK.
We all would probably have been better off if my parents had explored the option of contraception, but alas we were subjected to some of the most heinous child abuse (filth, depravity, isolation, malnutrition, cages, etc), but that’s a story for another time and I’ll try not to make it the focus. However, it is impossible to explain my origins without mentioning this, as it shaped me greatly. Suffice it to say my birthgivers should probably be in prison. And, although I was largely raised by my grandparent’s generation, that arrangement (although I’m thankful for it) wasn’t always what I’d call ..cozy.. either.
My family was in the newspaper business on both sides. One small blessing is that I was supplied with plenty of pens and paper, both the ends of newsprint rolls and reporter notebooks as well as boxes of navy blue paper mate pens. Some of my earliest memories are of the dulled chemical berry smell and oily texture of the ink as the pen glided over the thin and smooth newsprint. I was hooked.
Growing up in the 80’s and 90’s in rural Vermont, and with few toys (or friends, because I literally stunk due to the filth I lived in) I had to amuse myself somehow. I was surrounded by incredible natural beauty, animals and historical sites. So, I drew about them. Everywhere, all day long. On the paper, on my bedroom walls (neglect allowing), on my school papers. My inner world became so rich, and such a welcome escape that I became exceptionally checked out of reality. Having a black belt in disassociation is great for creativity, but not for academics. My social life suffered greatly from the disconnect, as well as because I was not enrolled in any sports or activities or even art programs where I could have had more of a chance to be socialized normally. This was actually passed off as a parenting tactic amazingly, and me and my younger siblings were featured in an article about NOT enrolling your young children in activities or specialized programs of any sort lest they become “brilliant and neurotic”.
This dovetailed perfectly into my mom’s ludicrous hobby of using me as a photo subject to pantomime picture-perfect scenes (for her “art”, and to send to relatives to provide evidence of normal child-rearing) of me engaging in activities I didn’t actually get to do. Flying a kite -with no kite-, posing stiffly in front of our trash filled home with a haircut administered only moments earlier to keep up the illusion, and performing chores like feeding the chickens which I was actually never permitted to do.
It should probably not come as a shock then, that my disdain for all things performative, plagiarized, traced, shamelessly derived and stripped of meaning or anything less than authentic artistry goes back to my mom. I had an amazing grandmother who was quite a bit older than my other grandparents and passed when I was pretty young. She lived on an incredible farm built during the French and Indian War. One of my dad’s girlfriends (And now my friend, fellow RISD grad and many times published author Ashley Wolff) painted a series of gorgeous murals on the huge doors of all of the barns depicting various farm life scenes. I was, of course, in love with them, and even more-so some of the concept sketches. They were made in loose, gestural, energetic graphite strokes. I imprinted on the confident, almost calligraphic quality of her marks. They OOZED with life and personality. Sadly, as could be expected, the years took their toll on the murals. As they faded and flaked away my mom had the ostensibly good idea to restore them. There was just one problem. She wasn’t a shred of the artist that Ashley was. What resulted was a sad, flat and lifeless facsimile of the gorgeous artwork that had long ago faded away. There was just no way she could bring them back, and I was honestly so offended by the soulless result, even as a young child. There’s such a thing as having the recipe but not the sauce.
I did not come from a family of artists. I became one largely out of spite, and because it was one of the few activities available to me. I obsessed about my favorite animals, tracking them through the woods. I took pictures of their tracks with a grainy 110mm mickey mouse camera, and sat silently like a stone until they came into view. Then I would feverishly dash home to draw what I had seen in stacks of journals and record the conditions to look for patterns in order to hopefully increase these sightings.
I also combined my love of history and animals and drew foxes in civil war uniforms and wrote long meandering illustrated “novels” about them in books I bound myself. I kept myself occupied with what precious little I could (a skill I’ve happily retained, preventing boredom from ever setting in), and I refused to allow my circumstances to define my life, which I was determined to live for myself. I was able to zoom out and see the bigger picture, despite my misery, and keep things in perspective. As bad as it was, I knew it could be worse, and at least I had art (and nature). I might not have been able to socialize with my peers, I may not have been loved by my family, but I’d draw circles around all of them, and one way or another I’d draw my way right out of that hell.
To be continued…
Crossfox 
Leave a comment