Art

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On a recent trip back west to visit the parents, my dad went digging in a remote corner of an upstairs closet and produced a bunch of laminated drawings he and Mom had saved from my glory days as a pint-sized art prodigy. 🤣

These prize-winning works are legendary in our family, but not so much for the content as the controversy. Supposedly, the panel of judges at the Morton Grove Library were so enamored with the childish scrawlings I entered in their kiddie art contest every year that they basically rubber-stamped the blue ribbon on everything bearing my name. My dominance so aggrieved some other kid’s mom that she asked them to ban me so her little Picasso would have a chance. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Not to worry, though; my head never gets a chance to swell much before Dad busts out some or other cringey writing project from that era, like my “children’s series” featuring anthropomorphic insects/animals. Somehow, the stories always seemed to cut off before I could come up with an acceptable ending — I apparently was fond of the “it was all a dream” plot device — but each book had a complete “about the author” bio listing all my elementary school accomplishments. 😬

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Whether or not I was really a good artist at age 6, I know for sure where my lifelong passion for art — making it, consuming it, appreciating it — came from.

For starters, both of the humans who teamed up to create me are extremely creative. Have you seen any of my mom’s home-sewn masterpieces from throughout my lifetime? (pictured below: the Cubs-colored dresses she made for my wedding, exactly 18 years ago this week!) And my dad is a legitimate professional artist, holding a college degree in fine art AND still working in the field of commercial art after more than half a century (pictured below: his throwback “Dr. Who” promo from the convention circuit back in the 80s.)

Pretty amazing, huh?

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My dad’s artistic talent is something I’ve always been proud of, ever since I was a colored-pencil-wielding kiddie, mimicking him while he sketched out his original comic strips, or airbrushed glossy ads for work, or showed up to Career Day and impressed my classmates with a colorful display of characters he brought to life for cereal and potato chip companies.

I’m even prouder now, all these years later, as I realize just how impressive it is for a person to “make it” in this world on the strength of their art. To build a career, support a family, support oneself, by painting, drawing, writing, singing, playing, acting, filming, designing, or telling stories in any medium…this is no small feat.

Hell, I feel like anyone who has the heart, courage and discipline to create something boldly original in a world full of cheap fakery is doing “the lord’s work”!

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I was blessed to be able to make a living as a writer for a solid 20 years before my career, and life, bottomed out. Now, I look around at an increasingly de-humanized society that’s more and more reliant on robots, algorithms, AI and automation, and less and less discerning of or enamored by authenticity — or truth, or justice, or empathy, or anything that requires emotional intelligence — and artists seem almost superheroic.

From James Gunn, who made me want to see a DC movie for the first time since Snyder’s “Watchmen” came out in 2009, to Andrea Gibson (RIP), who made me want to read poetry for the first time since the mid-90s when we studied Emily Dickinson in AP English class, to Bruce Springsteen and Taylor Swift, to Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart and Jimmy Kimmel to Trey Parker and Matt Stone…and let’s not forget Dan Rather and Heather Cox Richardson, because good journalism is 100% a lost art…

While I’m at it, and since I mentioned English class, let’s throw in Fyodor Dostoyevsky, who recently popped back up in pop culture news thanks to Pedro Pascal, and George Orwell, who basically wrote the script for 2025 with “Animal Farm” and “1984.” Big shout out to the teachers (Dr. Graham and Mr. Paulos) who forced me to read those authors and sparked a passion for critical thinking and fearless self-expression that lives on to this day.

I’m so grateful for all creators, celebrity or commoner, dead or alive, who’ve utilized their unique talents, ideas, and voices to shine a light in dark times.

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I celebrated six years sober on July 7, and over that transformative timespan, art has been absolutely essential in helping me climb back from “rock bottom” and build a new life.

From books to music to podcasts to movies to TV shows and streaming series, art has sprinkled some much-needed spice into my life since I rid my system of alcohol. It’s been a healthy distraction and safe escape, getting me out of my head without eating away at my soul. It’s disarmed, soothed, stimulated and motivated me. It’s forced me to feel, to sit and hold grief and joy, beauty and pain, hope and despair, all together in one (usually tearful) moment.

It’s validated and educated and connected me to something bigger. It’s set my spirit free when I’ve felt stuck in endless earthly suffering.

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Perhaps most crucial to my continuous sobriety, art has made the earthly suffering a lot less insufferable. After two years, I got tired of dutifully tracking the days on the dry-erase whiteboard in my basement, hash mark by hash mark, and started filling the space with inspirational quotes from all my favorite artists.

These days, it’s mostly existential theory, mixed with rock music lyrics.

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I have this cute quirk where I hear the lyrics to songs, words conveying some other soul’s deeply personal experience, and instantly make them all about me. To wit: the above bit of Springsteen brilliance makes me think about my decision to quit drinking and start this blog.

It’s risky to lay down your suit of armor, then share your story of addiction on the internet for all (at least in theory) to see. But opening up in this space has enabled me to process unpleasant memories, make peace with some ugly truths, forgive myself for failing, learn/relearn what I truly value and discover I want to do with my one little life.

I’ve even been able to “touch” a few fellow riders in the process.

In that sense, writing, which I always considered my greatest artistic gift, might also be my most valuable recovery tool.

There are plenty of “big” things I’ve been able accomplish since I got sober— master’s degree, associate counseling license, job at a private therapy practice with 30+ clients in my care — but behind the scenes, this blog remains a special point of pride.

It isn’t “monetized,” unless you count the $100 I got from first-place entries in the DelVal U. Writers Conference in 2021 and 2022. It only has like 3-4 regular readers (hi, Mom! 👋🏻), none of them librarians looking to dole out blue ribbons. I don’t put the time in, forcing myself to sit still for hours on end, month after month, and struggle to herd all the cats — or skiing rabbits/restless butterflies 😉 — in my cluttered brain, to “be productive” or because I think someday I’ll finally, actually write a book.

I do it to put something out into the universe that feels meaningful to me. To create something authentic, vulnerable and imperfectly human, and to release it, with no clue what, if anything, might come back.

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I always said that if my something made a positive impact on someone else, as other people’s art has had on me, that was just icing on the cake. More than I could ask for. And here and there over the past six years, I’ve had little hints that it’s happening.

Just recently, I got an email from an old work acquaintance who said they stumbled upon this space and read a few posts, and they were inspired to take a look at their own relationship with alcohol and overall path in life.

This is precisely what makes art so precious and powerful! It allows any of us, from my dad to The Boss, late night comedians to high school English teachers, precocious kindergarteners to retired journalists/recovering alcoholics, to change the world for the better — even if it’s just a tiny bit.

When we create, consume, appreciate, or amplify art, we help to carry the light of humanity, and keep it shining, long after our own little flame flickers out. 💡✨