I knew this guy when I was young. Dreadlocks, pierced tongue. He was the mascot for tainted youth. He was always brooding. I mean, you really don't know the meaning of the word "brooding" unless you've seen this guy. He wore eye makeup and tight, black jeans. His dreadlocks were so carefully and painstakingly maintained that he made me feel like a slob. And he was always searching, searching for a reason to be angry.

I was fascinated by him. I was captured by his mysterious and devoted efforts to appear to be troubled. I wished that I could have given him some of my natural ability to achieve the state of mind that he was endlessly searching for. And some time along the way, I think that my fascination was mistaken for a crush. Whenever I was in his presence, he would put on strange airs. He would lean towards me, with an expression that he must have considered to be sexy and mysterious. But I knew that he had practiced that same expression in the mirror numerous times. And, unbeknownst to him, I was always overwhelmed with a feeling of pity for him.

One day, while I was working on a drawing, I captured his attention. He had always considered himself to be somewhat of an artist. I had noticed that he nurtured a secret affinity for comics. Through my careful observation, I had seen him secretly sketching comic book heroes. This is something that he never would have admitted to his friends. It would have instantly destroyed the image that he had so carefully built. So when he saw me sketching, he approached me. He demanded to see my drawing. The drawing was of an angel. It was drawn on red paper, with white and dark red values. It was spookilly underlit and surprisingly powerful, considering how young and untrained I was.

"I'll never draw again", he muttered, with his usual tone of disdain. "If someone like you is good at it, what's the point".

I was hurt. He saw the look of surprised dejection on my face, and instantly assumed it was because of my assumed crush on him. But the real reason for my bruised ego was because my drawings were very close to me. He didn't understand that I wasn't creating art as a tool to build my reputation. I was creating art because it revived me. It gave me hope, propelled me, and made me happy. And unlike him, I was definitely not looking for a reason to be unhappy.

Though I've grown older and more self-confident, I still find myself experiencing that same feeling of surprise and dejection. When I'm creating art or music, it's a labor of love. The desire to create consumes me, and fulfills me. I don't do it because I need affirmation from the people that I admire. I don't do it because I'm carefully building my reputation as an artist. I just have to make stuff. But still, when I recieve the occasional sneer of dejection, I feel aweful.

I've noticed that there are certain types of people that never feel dejected when their creative endeavors are rejected. They are people that never invest anything in their art. They have a "just business" sort of attitude that protects them from rejection. But their creative endeavors always fall flat. They lack heart and ingenuity. The subject of their project always seems one dimensional and dull. Is this the price that we pay for not getting "emotionally involved" in our art?

Although I often fall short of my intentions, I resolve to put my heart into the things that I create. They may lack perspective and skill. But, dammit, they're mine.