Lately I vacillate almost daily between elation that I'm able to draw at all now and a mixture of grief/anger/frustration/despondency that I can barely limp along, that four hours of drawing (switching hands every 45 minutes or so and taking a couple hour break part way through) is taxing enough to be very worrying and leads to stiffness and mild aching the following day.
That it has been 6 months, and, despite dedicating myself diligently to every guideline laid out by my doctor and occupational therapist, and despite still taking 16 ibuprofen a day on average, my hand still isn't healed.
That I can barely limp along at the job that, yeah is pretty fun but barely pays my bills, and can't even begin to look for something else with one hand out of commission for all intents and purposes and the other balancing on a razor edge of irritated and injured.
What makes me so angry is that I DID NOTHING WRONG. I was doing exactly what every artist ever says you do to improve -- draw a lot. (And even so, aside from a few work-related marathon sessions, it wasn't 24/7--heck...half of art is searching the internet while looking for motivation and going to the kitchen for a snack. That's just science). I wasn't engaged in longer sessions than I had been in school, when I spent days in a row sitting on my sofa finishing projects. But I never had an inkling of a problem then. I was just more...directed. I was focusing on weaknesses and researching. But I was doing just...what you DO as an artist to improve. I wasn't abusing myself or pushing myself all that hard. I was just working. Drawing. I feel like an athlete that eats healthy, stretches and trains diligently for a big race, only to suddenly develop a heart murmur that keeps them from moving above a sedate jog forever after. It makes me want to shout and hit things and throw crockery against walls.
But the half of me that isn't raging just wants to curl up in a dark corner in a locked room where no one can bother me because...a year ago I had...a future. I was passionately reaching towards my goals. I felt incandescent. I felt like the things I dreamed of doing were possible. I had a cool job where I was regularly getting asked to illustrate. I had people asking me to do illustrations for them, seeking me out and offering me money to draw things for them. Even though my technical skills were still getting polished, people liked something about my work and how I see the world and I knew that as long as I kept focused and worked on getting better where I was weak, I could follow my dreams.
But if every time I push myself a little too far I end up incapacitated for a year, that doesn't bode well for a career in illustration or concept art. Or anything.
And it's not like I'm a fine artist that can say 'oh, I'm waiting for inspiration,' 'art takes time', while working at a coffee shop to pay for my SoHo loft. I'm a commercial artist. my work has timelines. I am very lucky in that the project I'm currently freelancing is the property of a very understanding man that isn't upset by the fact that pieces that once took me a day or two now take weeks. But that's not exactly a standard attitude.
Luckily I'm good at compartmentalizing. I try not to think about it. Now that I can draw a little again, I can usually look at other people's art without wanting to throw my computer across the room in bitter jealousy and I can sometimes breathe without it hurting. I just think about the next time enough time will have passed and I can draw. For a little while.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013 at 09:11AM 
