How could this happen? Mental illness? Maybe. Pity the famous artist who can never get out of that body and exist.
But how was the famous artist created, and who trapped him in my body? And who created me, and forced me onto a path of wretched loserdom?
When the only person who ever really truly loved you, and gave a shit about you, tells you that "you cannot be an artist, should not be an artist, will not be an artist, because artists are gay, artists can't buy a house or raise a family, you will bring shame upon me if you live the life of a starving unknown artist, etc...", you can at least glimpse the beginning of the identity crisis. And possibly the formation of the loser, although we all believe the loser is responsible for his own loserdom, do we not?
When that same person, the only person who ever really truly loved you, the only person who ever gave a shit about you, drags you around Europe to every famous art museum and cathedral, and you see that this person is proud of the fact that he has left redneck uncultured America to see REAL culture, and the fact that he's done so is proof on top of his Ivy League degree and Fortune 500 career that he is BETTER than the average bear, and you are being dragged along as the accessory to this... you can start to see the formation of what will become "the famous artist trapped in the body of the wretched nobody".
Once the main identity crisis is formed, you may develop multiple identities in order to cope with the main identity crisis. Unlike the poor kid in Dead Poets Society, I have never had the balls to just escape the crisis with a slit wrist or a bullet to the brain. Every time I go to the ledge, the famous artist trapped inside says, "give it one more go. Remember Van Gogh? He died a nobody, and look at him now!"
Let's take a trip through some of these identities. Some were real, and some were fabricated avatars. The internet has made it incredibly easy to fabricate an identity. Prior to the internet, it had to be accomplished through printed materials, photographs, cassette tapes and video tapes, interviews in publications, performances, and reviews in the back of underground magazines. Or via tall tales told in a drunken drug induced stupor at yet another "party" gathering of people you don't know, don't love, who don't know you, and certainly don't love you either.
We unfortunately live in a society that uses fame and fortune as the yardstick for success. As individuals we may privately eschew this evaluation, and in that personal bubble there may be a version of success, but you will be the only one who recognizes it as such. Fame and fortune is the only proof of success the rest of the world will accept.
The idea that this fame and fortune must be earned through blood sweat and tears, is anathema to the famous artist who is trapped inside. When did Picasso ever bleed, sweat or cry? He was everywhere, always, without ever lifting a finger.
Let's take a look at some of the real identities I endured. Jobs or tasks I took on because I had to, or I thought I must do. My Mom and Dad would not allow me to sit in my room and draw pictures all day whilst smoking pot and listening to prog rock. Neither would my roommates or my wives. They made me do Boy Scouts of America, church and church school, soccer team, high grade point average, university, jobs, then that job isn't good enough, get a better one, the rent's gone UP! etc, etc... You can never be good enough for them or for the famous artist trapped inside. There's no worse feeling than when your Dad, the only person who actually gives a shit about you, who was a keen basketball player in his teens, forces you to join a basketball team, which you hate, and at which you fail miserably, and then you see the look of disappointment on his face, and you know he's thinking, "I wish I could take this crappy artist kid back to the maternity ward and exchange him for a hot shot basketball player".
Despite my Mom and Dad living in a fancy neighborhood, and being proud of their affluent status, they were incredibly stingy. Probably because they'd maxxed out on the mortgage, the cars and the credit cards, there was nothing left after they'd leveraged everything for upper-middle-class status. "You want money for art supplies? Get a job". And so I did. Washing dishes after school at the old folks home. My first new identity. Inside myself I was a famous artist. In reality I was the stupid stoner dishwasher.
This string of no hope jobs continued, unfortunately, for the rest of my life. There is no hope for success at a university or a job if your heart is not in it. The famous artist trapped inside you won't have it. "Where's the museum show? Where's my picture in the art history book? Where's the villa on the riviera? Where are the forgeries of my famous paintings? How come nobody here knows me or wants to know me?" etc, etc...
Dishwasher. Newspaper delivery. Lawnmower. Hospital orderly. Deli clerk. Fast food employee. Diner cook. Library monitor. Catering assistant. Dishwasher again. House painter. Foot messenger. Mailroom clerk. Audio Visual Coordinator. Marketing Manager. Director of Marketing. Graphic designer. Web designer. Graphics consultant. Illustrator. Construction worker. Quality control technician. Furniture warehouse employee. Etc, etc...
To the people at these workplaces, I was Mike, the weird moody guy who wasn't really there, who didn't really want to be there. Sometimes they knew I was a wannabe famous artist, usually not. I even wrote a song about it, and got a rock band to perform and record it. It was called "Self Image" (this was 1986, so no, it's not about selfies).
Probably the biggest and most elaborately constructed alter ego of mine was the "Rock Star". It started out as a rock drummer. This identity was real, like the string of day jobs. I got a drum kit and played in dozens of unknown rock bands. I was good at it, but I did not enjoy it, it was another fake skin. Because I was good at rock drumming, it became so easy to do, I fell into doing it. It provided social interaction, free booze, free drugs, it gets you out of your dismal apartment and into a dismal bar or nightclub where you can unleash your frustrations in a loud and violent way, and at the end of the night your bandmates scrape you off the sidewalk and deliver you safely back to your miserable existence. I was fortunate to have such bandmates, but the truth about being a rock drummer is that every rock band has a megolomaniac guitarist/singer/songwriter who is undergoing their own identity crisis of having a famous rock star trapped inside them, and they expect you, the amazingly good rock drummer, to pull their wagon up the hill of fame and fortune. I don't think I ever stayed in a band for more than a year or so. At the end of the day, it's no different than a dead end job with a douchebag boss. Except at the day job you get paid. None of the bands I was in ever paid me a dime.
The second stage of this "Rock Star" identity took the form of a reclusive recording artist. It was kind of like being a cryptic visual artist or writer, in that I was holed up in a basement recording studio that nobody knew about, churning out my rock "masterpieces" on cassette tape. The problem was, I was no Paul McCartney. Some people were nice and said nice things about my rock songs, but let's face it, it was a massive failure. I have zero musical talent. Yet it was an identity I clung to as a way to avoid being an absolute nobody. I even wrote and recorded a song about it, called "I Shot The Invisible Man". Only I didn't shoot him, not on film, nor with a fatal bullet. Despite this alter-ego, the famous artist trapped inside was still alive and kicking, invisible to the world.
The time comes when you realize that the people who say they love you, and that one guy who actually gives a shit about you, don't really love and don't care about the famous artist trapped inside you. They wish he would go away. They want some version of you that they've concocted in their minds, they don't understand the famous artist trapped inside, and so they don't and won't do anything to release him. You come to the realization that in order to end this identity crisis, you must either become the famous artist, or kill the famous artist trapped inside, or adopt a new identity, or end your miserable existence. These moments are the maximum crisis moments, and cannot be mitigated by adopting new identities, these moments can only be mitigated by drink and drugs, or by quitting everything and making art all day long.
Which I did a lot of both. But in my early thirties I quit drugs, and in my mid forties I quit drinking. I have been sober and making art almost full-time for 15 years now. I no longer take to the drink and drugs to mitigate the crisis. I am not famous. I am not wealthy. I am not happy. But I did take on one last identity that has at least earned my own self-respect, maybe even the respect of the famous artist trapped inside me.
When I was 45 I became a Dad. I have been a full-time Dad now for 15 years, and I actually like it. It's the only job I ever had that gave me any satisfaction. I even like to think I am kinda good at it. Probably not, but my kid has never gone without food, or a roof over its head, or without both parents at home every day and every night, and my kid likes me and I like my kid, so it's a good thing.
I have also been handed a new identity, one I did not ask for, and one I would not wish on anybody. My wife has a progressive, incurable brain disease called PCA (Posterior Cortical Atrophy), and has lost all cognitive ability. I am her 24/7 carer. I must help her eat, dress, toilet, bathe, everything. It is the harshest, cruelist, most unrewarding job I have ever taken on. I think this is the one that may eventually kill the famous artist trapped inside me.
In 2018 my Dad died. The only person who ever truly gave a shit about me was gone. The reason I was created, which was to complete his ego, the only reason I was brought into this world, was now gone. I should be free. The famous artist trapped inside should've disappeared in a puff of smoke, like a hex was suddenly broken. The famous artist trapped inside does not die that easily. He's alive and kicking, sulking, raging, brooding. He's even made me start drawing again, after not touching a pen, pencil or paintbrush for three years. He's even got me to resurrect this blog, and fill it with every drawing, painting and collage I ever made. As if I was a famous artist.
As if.
On the Internet, creating multiple identities is as easy as pushing a button. Some of the ones I created include; "Velveeta Heartbreak", the psychedelic painter who makes weird rock music. "Poplow Pigasso", the art critic and inventor of the Hyper-Psych theory of art. "Marker Magus", the guy who can create artistic masterpieces with nothing but a set of cheap markers and discarded scrap paper. These can be fun when you first create them, but maintaining them only exposes the lie, and the famous artist trapped inside won't have it. "Where are the hundreds of thousands of followers? Where are the New York Times and Artforum articles? Where are the fans taking selfies with me at the MoMA reception?"
At the end of the day, you can't fool the famous artist trapped inside you. You either have to become a famous artist, or you must kill him off. Or kill yourself. Or figure out another way to live with him.
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