I Will Always Be An Artist
For the past 5+ years, I have worked as an indie cartoonist, character designer, printmaker, graphic designer, and muralist. I’ve combined my love of art with a love of activism and community. My very first original project was Little Death (2021).
I created Little Death when I was an adult in my 20s, at a low point in my life. I said to myself, there’s nothing I can do with this pain, except turn it into art. Art has been there for me when I was desperate for a connection, in a way nothing else has been before. Little Death is a romantic horror comic series about a taboo relationship between a reclusive mortal boy and an obsessive, cruel lich. It’s also a commentary on the artistic growth I needed to have for Little Death to exist. Little Death is a story about a young trans man who finds his nomadic sense of safety challenged by a hypersexual queer monstrosity, which is an important meta aspect of the story to keep in mind, because my journey to Little Death was about letting go of respectability in my art, in order to be authentic and talk about truly meaningful things.
I intend to pursue art as a lifelong career. I sat down and wrote this somewhat lengthy article to give insight into my process, my journey, and my plans, through the figurative lens of art as a partner in life. In this article, I’m going to talk about my current relationship to art—my life partner, who I’ve had to negotiate some boundaries with, and ultimately accept for being a crucial part of my life. First, I’m going to talk about what my creative art practice used to look like—I’ll be talking about productivity, part-time jobs, and shame. Second, I’m going to talk about what my creative art practice looks like right now—specifically I’ll be talking about emotional, physical, and spiritual healing. Third, I’m going to discuss the importance of artists’ self-care during a very difficult time in our community.
What my creative practice used to look like consisted of frequent all nighters to complete pages. I completed two pages of full color comics per week. I spent 8-12 hours in front of the screen per day, uninterrupted. I had the feeling that I was being unfaithful to my art when I was working a day job to sustain myself financially. I had to pay rent and earn money to live, but a second voice in my head told me that I wasn’t worthy of coming home to my art if I wasn’t trying hard enough to make it work professionally. Having a minimum wage day job in retail where I put up with abuse and intolerance put me in a position of having barely enough money for basic necessities, and not enough self respect to let myself rest as an artist.
My creative practice has been through a lot of shifts and adjustments in the last two years. I developed lumbar facet syndrome, which is chronic back pain, and I couldn’t handle walking, sitting, or standing for more than 15 minutes without being in searing pain all day. My art as a queer erotica creator was and is being threatened by bigoted anti-LGBTQ+ lobbyists who want to stretch the definition of obscenity. This past fall, my body, my financial situation, and my stress forced me to pause creating Little Death Chapter 3, and I made a statement that I would not consider myself a professional artist until my health crisis was over and I could fully recommit myself to my art. It was a hard post to write. I felt like I was betraying my community, but I also felt immense relief, which I felt guilty about too.
I never stopped seeing the world through the lens of art. I am an artist. I was born an artist, and I will die an artist. After getting some months to recover, go to physical therapy, and reassess what I want, I realized that my life, even when I’m not drawing, is a commitment to art.
My creative practice now looks like things that can’t be seen, but can be felt—Gratitude practices that allow me to see art in everything around me. Thanking the fresh air and the blue skies, following the chirping song of sparrows and the warm, golden sunlight, greeting the ice-slicked, red maple trees. When I sit down to draw, I no longer feel like the process consumes me. I still hyperfocus and spend more time than I expected in front of the screen. I now take as much time as I need to work on comic pages, drawings, linocuts, and paintings.
Since last year, I’ve been seeking a part time day job that can support my art, or a full time job that lets me build a nest egg, so I’ll have the financial freedom to pursue art long term. I don’t berate myself needlessly for needing to spend time on self-care or other jobs. I feel less scared of disappointing the muse in my head. I’m gentler with myself, while also challenging myself. I make sure I eat every four hours, and sleep for 8 hours every night. I take a walk outside every day and commune with nature. I’m lucky to be with my long term partner, who has been with me through my entire transformation—He has accepted me as I am, warts and all, as I redefine my previous understanding of what an artist is supposed to be.
When I said I would become a hobbyist, I was so stressed out about the consequences of pouring from an empty cup that it was affecting my health. I was under the impression that my relationship to art had gotten too mired in fear and shame, and it was going to seriously harm me. I was desperately trying to throw away the negative parts of an identity that had once been my lifeline. This time of reflection and healing has been enough to help me understand that art is central to my soul, and I will always be an artist. I no longer consider myself a hobbyist, because for me, art isn’t a diversion from my real life. Art is my life. If I take time off from art, it’s to support my art.
I wish this was a less dangerous time to be a trans artist exploring erotic, transgressive themes. Art is what we do with pain and beauty when it overtakes its bounds. I create art because of these social, personal contradictions—the outer world colliding with the inner. I make art because I’m in pain, and I’m grateful—because the world is cruel, and the world is beautiful. When I’m standing outside in the cold, I see the trees and think of them as angels. I doubt the people pushing for trans genocide really pause to consider the sanctity around them.
I’m doing what I can to have my art career become fully realized in the long term so that the creative productivity I brought as a queer erotica artist will one day be sustainable again. I hope that I can provide an example of self compassion for future generations of artists like me. Queer erotica artists never die—they just turn their days into poetry. Thank you for reading this article, and thank you for your kindness and generosity.
LittleDeathComic.com