When I was a young boy my mother made me take piano lessons. I am told I was quite good for my age; however, at the time I did not have much interest in the piano. Learning the piano was difficult, and the rewards were evidently too slow to manifest. I grew impatient, and as soon as I was allowed, I stopped practicing and playing. Like so many, I look back as an adult and wish I had stuck with it. I envy proficient musicians who persevered to achieve such seemingly effortless expressive freedom. To attain that level of skill requires dedication — countless hours, many of which are undoubtably spent reluctantly and with minimal joy. However, as with any developed talent, the toil eventually becomes a refuge — a powerful form of expression, a tool to explore and understand the nature of life. I don’t know of any accomplished person who does not see the yoke as their path to true freedom.
Our relationship to our work and toil is complex and multi-faceted. I am extremely glad that I found my way to the visual arts. This is not a common, supported, well-marked path in our society. Unlike music, very few children are forced to take art classes when they are young. Looking back, I see the seeds that were sufficiently watered, but ultimately it was something that I pursued — a murky and mostly solitary process of self-discovery. Neither of my parents were artists, and I fortunately attended well-funded schools that had not cut their art programs. Although I was never overtly discouraged, I don’t remember a single instance when I was encouraged in this pursuit. Regardless, at some level, I did not have a choice. This is who I am and how I navigate the world. I don’t know how else I can explain my compulsions and obsessions — like manipulating pizza boxes.