pews for paint

I wasn't an artist until Jesus rejected me. Many a christian would beg to differ, saying that I, in fact rejected God first. I would argue that he/she/it-whatever was my constructed image of the divine when I was younger-left me in the gutter quicker then a drunken prom date.

Many people come to art the way they come to religion, that is--they were raised-up in it; others, such as myself, converted at a later age and have always been a bit suspicious of the inbreeds. I came to art through a quarter life crisis. I was studying to be a woman pastor or some shit like that when one day while sitting amongst a slue of blonde-headed frauds and well-tempered, bubble-filled nitwits I realized that I wasn't like any of those people. I mean we had our share of similarities, such as a four chambered heart and a closet full of sexual frustration, but for the most part I couldn't stand being associated with that particular sect of humanity. I left; I meandered in to the art department portfolioless and slightly soulless and they accepted me.

Three years later, equipped with a bachelors degree and living in my parents basement I realized that it took that initial break to get me to listen. My old Jesus, who was more akin to a divine image thunk up by Keven Smith, acted like a catheter bag as I processed other people's interpretations of God through my haughty existence. What I like to think of the new, perhaps real, divine character in my life is that he/she/it was the thing that walked right up to me, yanked out my pee tube, and let me piss all over myself. I'm still me; I'm just being used to a full potential. Redemption comes to mind. A youtube video of inmates dancing to Jackson's Thriller comes to mind. An old typewriter, a tap-dancing marionette, and a broken barbeque creating rhythms working in conjunction with two talented musicians speaks to the possibilities of being made perfect only through ones imperfections. Perhaps that old evangelical speak about making oneself holy before a perfect God is just peanut butter in the roof of an old dogs mouth. What if making oneself holy isn't about kneeling as much as it is about rolling up one's sleeves?