This isn't really a happy story. It's not a story I've spoken of to many. Though I was successful in this endeavor, the night only ended in horrific, soul shattering disappointment; my highest high led to the biggest buzzkill of my life to date.
Three years ago, I created this and I titled it, "The Land of Milk & Honey." The stark blankness represents the endless possibilities that I believed were going to be out there for me upon receiving my degree. I was a sturdy, elated milk bottle ready to saturate the world with my art and vision. A sweet and talented honeypot was my artistic sidekick who stood by my side as we conquered our college careers with nothing but our Macintosh computers and sheer tenacity. This was an image of strength, hope & success. Graduation was within reach.
I wanted to share it with the world.
I was one of the few students brave (or maybe, stupid) enough to submit ONE piece to the CSUN Annual Juried Student Art Exhibition for consideration. Most submitted at least 4 to up the odds in their favor. This yearly exhibit was open to all students, both grads and undergrads alike. There were at least 20 mediums that were to be represented. So naturally, the space could only hold so much and only the best of the best would be chosen to fill the coveted gallery space. I vaguely remember the congratulatory call notifying me that I had been selected among thousands of entries to grace the university walls. Needless to say, I was at a pant-soiling level of amazement. There was going to be an opening reception to kick off the 4 week show. My fellow design colleagues had expressed how talented and fortunate I was to be shown as one of the best among my artistic peers. I even impressed myself, especially because my one shot, out of thousands, was selected.
I wanted to share it with the world.
I called friends and family in hopes that someone would be there to see my work displayed on a gallery wall for the first time. I still couldn't believe the level of validation I received as an artist. April 25, 2008 was the night I was waiting for. I wanted loved ones to squeal with me as we'd look at the art. I had already mentally prepared the description and analysis for those who would inquire about the context of my work. I was excited. I was ready. There was even a possibility of winning an award. I couldn't believe it.
I wanted to share it with the world.
Opening night crept up and I had gone to the exhibit early to see where the final placement would be. Even though I risked posing as a pompous art connoisseur, I had imagined certain people that I was going to talk to about the piece. I imagined just standing there admiring the art around us. Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. It was all in my head but a DJ testing his sound levels, snapped me out of my daydream. Back to reality, Mark. I wandered throughout the art buildings looking at the various pieces and exhibits. The tables and displays were being set and the art students were all electric. Anticipation surged and the hair at the nape of my neck stood on end. I couldn't wait to show my work.
Five minutes to seven o' clock - a flood of people came into the art department and waited in front of the gallery doors. I scanned the crowd in hopes of a familiar face. At this point, the only company I had were my design buddies and their respective guests. I assured myself that people were coming late because of work and I chalked it up to the a relatively long drive to Northridge.
As the time passed me by, I still roamed alone. At times I went with different art friends with their guests pretending that I saw this or that for the first time. The monotony shook my bones. I was sick of the gallery. I've viewed everything multiple times and the DJ's music grew stale in my ears. I thought that I should at least be present for the distribution of awards and if no one showed up, I'd just go home. I feigned my pride since I had to swallow it. My colleagues wanted to meet my guests and made me stand next to my piece so they could photograph me. There wasn't a name for me to introduce. It took a lot to muster up a fake grin to crack my stoic face. I hated every single photo. Not a single soul came to see me.
I wasn't awarded anything that night - not that it mattered to me anymore. I didn't utter a single "goodbye" as I quietly left the gallery space and walked to a different one... my parking space. My heavy breathing and dragging feet pierced my angry silence. I turned the key and posted myself in the driver's seat of my 1997 Honda Civic. I sat forlorn as I allowed my eyes to well up. I stared out into the stars. The tears made the stars twinkle fiercely before they soaked into my jeans. I sat there defeated with a cluttered mind and empty heart. My keys, clenched in my hand for at least another half hour. I finally decided that I had to leave. The event's energy was only damaging me further. I learned that it's really hard to drive at night when you're fighting back enraged tears. I cried the entire way home in complete silence. I still remember how much my hands hurt because I gripped the steering wheel so hard.
That very piece still sits in my room with the gallery card that reads:
The Land of Milk and Honey
graphic design
I wanted to share it with the world.
...but my world never showed up.
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