I’m feeling melancholy today. I just read a rejection letter. An 8.5 x 11″ piece of white linen paper has measured the sum of my achievements and found me wanting.
“… our panel enjoyed your work but …”
“Please reapply next year.”
These sentences inspired a flurry of masochistic endeavors. I engaged in “popularity math.” I counted followers. I studied the work of colleagues and compared myself to them. I found my work struggling on the scoreboard. Which invariably, in the arts, means either your career is in a slump or it is non-existent.
Let me pause my self-loathing and focus on what matters. I’m healthy. I still have the love and support of my wife and family. My parents have reconciled their slight shame in telling people that their son is a penniless artist with the genuine tone of awe.
“He’s still doing this.”
“After years of Art School, debt, lost opportunities, no holidays, relationship issues, mental anguish and even outright failure … He’s still doing this.”
Why?
Because I love my craft.
Because I love Type.
Because I love printing.
Because I love the feeling that washes over you after an all-nighter.
When you’re done and your work stands beside you resolute and still.
And yes,
it’s slightly painful and it might prove futile but all mortal exertions are. Maybe spending your formative years pursuing your passion and learning about yourself is a romantic endeavor. I may never be as successful as my peers but I am still a well-versed craftsman propelled by his own momentum.
External forces do not drive me.
Only my undying faith that this is time well spent keeps me standing.
The letter didn’t change anything.
Keep your fellowship.
Keep your scholarship and shining cities.
I’m working on making something.
—louis hernandez
Flommist Louis Herdandez is obsessed with going Bauhaus and becoming The Machine. Preferably a drill press. Copyright © 2017 Louis Hernandez.
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