Howdy! Welcome to Outsider ArtWork By Manic Mark
Always cranky... Sometimes sticky...
I dug through a pile of drawings that I found in an old box. My Dad drew comic books when he was about eight years old. These were his drawings.
Both my Grandfathers were self-trained artists.
I wish that I had kept my first drawings. I drew army men with arms and legs blown off. I drew blood with a red pen.
In the second grade we made sawdust and glue snowmen. We also made ashtrays for our parents.
My father would have been happier if I been interested in baseball.
One night, my Dad took me to the local bible college to hear a published comic book artist give a talk. After his talk, I asked him if he had any advice on how I could become a comic book artist. He looked at me with dismay. I missed the point of his lecture.
I made more eyeballs out of clay in high school art class. The editor of the literary magazine told me that my poem about suicide was "rather crass". The guidance counselor pointed out that I was better suited to a career as a small appliance repairman.
I won a semester scholarship to an art school.
One professor commented that my paintings looked as though I had thrown up my breakfast. I was drunk the night before. Another professor was not happy that I was writing on my artwork. Folk Art was a painting in an art history slide presentation. At the end of my last painting class the professor spat out... “I will not teach anyone to paint who doesn’t already know how to paint.” One day, I noticed a student nailing three salvaged doors together. He said he was doing art and explained his process. The explanation did not include the obvious, that he was nailing doors together.
I was hired by a greeting card company. I was fired shortly thereafter.
For something to do, I submitted a few cartoons to Hustler Magazine. They sent one back with a note stating that my drawing was too tasteless for the most tasteless cartoon page.
I created a portfolio of boring art. I got the job.
A guy running a workshop told me that I was a “rebel”.
A person once asked me to paint a duck on their mail box. They were offended when I said no. They thought that I was a real artist.
I painted on salvaged wood in my free time. I was invited to see a private folk art collection. It would take another 15 years before I would discover that I was not a folk artist and I better sure as hell not call myself one.
I started a business building websites. I acquired costly office space but spent much of my time at home painting on scrap wood.
One day I ran into a folk art collector. He laughed in my face.
My wife looked at a sculpture that I was building in our living room and said “We are going to starve."
A person that bought one of my painting returned it because he had decieded that I was not a real folk artist. Apparently the art was real, but I was not.
I don't spend time trying to figure out what's up with art.
Labels. You need to keyword your website. Or do you?