aswang

Last year, I had a modeling session with an artist I really admire, Rodrigo Luff. He’s come up with a series of works from the that one session, but this one is my absolute favorite. He shows us he’s executed the piece step-by-step over here. 

I’m really digging it because I look like I could be an aswang. 

likenesses

I’ve already uploaded some of these on my illustration blog alamundo.tumblr.com.

But I have more followers here :-)

A couple months ago, I modeled for artist Rodrigo Luff. Here are some of the sketches and rough paintings he’s come up with. I just love them!

I’ll admit, that despite this year being a motherload of awards and recognition, despite acquiring some shiny new medals, my name in print, and praises from people’s lips, I can’t help but feel like a failure because I have not made enough money to be independent. I have not made much money at all, period.

I know it’s crazy how I can’t appreciate the good things that have come my way because of money worries. In my younger years I was convinced that I was part of that change-the-world generation that would strive for accomplishment, and reaching one’s full potential instead of money. And now, here I am in my late 20s, certainly not short of accomplishments, but quite short on earnings… and disappointed with myself.

Things seem different now. In your late 20s, it’s hard to feel like an adult if you’re not making the right amount, and the “right” amount differs for everyone. As of now, I feel more like a “kidault” than an adult.

Which leads me to another thing, my need to earn more doesn’t stem from a desire to go out on massive shopping sprees every pay day, although it would be nice to travel sometimes, and buy myself a cup of coffee without guilting myself. I don’t have a lot of materialistic wants. I don’t want any shoes or dresses. Having very little to spend strips away the inessential. Even if a big, fat wad of cash dropped into my lap right now, chances are I’d use it to buy a coffee, see a movie, and stash the rest away in savings. I’m happy with small pleasures.

But I do feel that having more money would make me feel more like a complete adult. Adults have money to pay their own way in life. Adults don’t make other people worry about them. I want independence.

But to be easier on myself, I realize there are flaws to equating money with adulthood and independence. There was a time when I certainly was earning enough to be independent. I was a bit younger then, and went out to party 3 times a week. Life was carefree haze of bands, smoky bars, and cheap beer. And while I was earning enough, did I have it in me to assert my independence? Obviously not. I couldn’t even cook a meal to save my life then, much less get around on my own.

And now that I actually have the maturity to be independent, now that I’ve acquired all the skills I need to do all the un-sexy, grown-up things that need to be done (cooking, cleaning, chores, errands, maintenance, responsibilities), now that I can really, really take care of myself, run a household smoothly even on a hectic schedule, I don’t have the financial means for independence.

Instead, I have awards. Hard-earned ones. Fruits of my discipline and devotion and to my craft. And at this point, despite feeling like a failure, I will give myself some well-deserved credit: everything I’ve achieved the past 2-3 years took a lot of maturity. In this sense, I have not failed myself as an adult. I know how to work really, really hard, and still get the bathroom cleaned and the grocery shopping done.

It is clear that money alone doesn’t make one an adult. Balance is what makes one an adult. Balance. Balance is something I should now strive for. Living your potential is good, but money is important, too. It only ceases to become important when you have enough… that amount varies from person to person.

And so, I start regular work in a few days. It’s a lowly job but it will give me what I need for now, and more importantly, will allow me the time to keep close to my art. Because I will not give up my art.

And if I have to be a little bit poorer for it, then so be it. 

(Also, I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, really. It’s a perfectionist’s flaw.)

on drawing

I miss drawing straight from the heart. Nowadays, I mull over what purpose my drawing has, what reason it has to exist, before I even begin the first stroke. Why can’t I just draw because I want to? Because I love it?

Drawing used to be like prayer. More sacred to me than going to church on Sundays. I drew because it was good. I drew because it was my purpose. My hand was made to grip a pencil and interpret my experience of life in my own individual way. I did not judge the value of my drawings, I loved them all like they were good, worthy, and loveable children. 

Now I only draw to get somewhere. 

I want to remember how to love drawing recklessly again. 

Same with writing, and acting, and singing, and anything worth doing with passion and honesty. 

Last week I went to see an exhibition, a collection of rough pencil drawings torn out from sketchbooks of French masters like Degas, Cezanne, and David. I looked at them and couldn’t help but feel that all these great artists were very much like me, and that I was very much like them, not in greatness but in passion. The spirit that moved them is the same spirit that moves me.

Like all artists I know, all their greatest works started out as incomprehensible pencil strokes on their sketch pads, or maybe even on a serviette or a ratty piece of scrap paper. My point is, everything starts out as insignificantly as faint scribble. Everything starts out as a frail idea that can so easily be squelched by our own judgement, by our own self-expectations. Did Degas mull over the significance of his work? He probably did. But the point is, he kept on going nonetheless. 

I looked at the drawings of these masters, the loving strokes, the hours and hours of discipline it took for them to get to such a high level in their craft. Why bother spending your life learning how to truthfully depict life? We have cameras for that nowadays, truth is unattainable, and try as you might, your drawings will only be a second rate copy of a much more complex and beautiful reality. 

But looking through the exhibition, suddenly, I remembered. It is the search for the truth that is beautiful, and a great drawing is just a by-product of that search. It is the act of creation of that is sacred and god-like, and the piece of paper with pencil strokes is only a vestige of that moment of divinity. 

The process is ten times more beautiful than the product. That is what makes drawing beautiful. That is why I love it.