Long Walk, pt. 1/2

Reflections from my first artist residency and half of a comic.

I’m not sure what I’m doing, who it’s for, or why I do it. My best guess is that in 2006, I swallowed a money-hating parasite that rewired my nervous system, resulting in an anxiety disorder and a drawing compulsion.

Last year, I made a personal resolution (a Misogi, if you will) to attend an artist residency. I convinced myself that if my day jobs didn’t exist, my notes app would burst into fully-formed creative projects. Two weeks of dedicated drawing time were all I needed to pivot into a boho-chic cartoonist fantasy. God, I wish.

I saved for six months, moved out of my Portland sublet and quit my job. I flew to Ireland, then took the train from Dublin to County Cork. The residency was everything I could ask for: quiet, lush, no drama. All the time in the world to focus.

Then, of course—decision paralysis. I spent 10 of my 14 days choosing what to work on. Every time I landed on an idea, I wondered why I thought my thoughts were valuable enough to talk about. What makes me so special? Why the hell did I travel to Ireland to do this? Who OK’d the budget? Why didn’t I become a nurse or something useful? The audacity I had injected into myself before I left had dried up. My internal crises had nowhere to hide in the country.

On the final four days, I thought, if I couldn’t make anything, I’d at least give myself a fun time. Ireland is an incredible backdrop for negative self-talk. I biked along the greenway to Youghal for a pastry. I stared at cows and wondered what it would feel like to brush their eyelashes upwards with my index finger. I observed clouds, slow ones and fast ones, in awe of their steadiness. #justgirlythings.

Ultimately, decided to make a comic with materials I had never used before: gouache and oil pastel. The paintings came first on 8” x 8” square sheets, then came text.

It feels extremely snobby to say, but the “if only’s” didn’t disappear after my residency. I don’t feel happy about anything I’ve made. I have yet to encounter the boho-chic cartoonist lifestyle. Maybe when that parasite entered my body 20 years ago, it also instilled permanent wishful thinking. It’s possible that I’ll remain dissatisfied with my life, regardless of the circumstances. I guess knowing that my dissatisfaction will remain consistent in any circumstance gives me comfort. And maybe a bit of satisfaction.

Below is the first half of the comic.

Part two in the next email because Substack can’t handle all these PNGs. Thank you for reading!