Well, I finished the West Valley Fiction painting last night and started working more on the self-portrait I’m calling “Sucker.” Here is the completed West Valley Fiction:

I was hemming and hawing a bit about the red dress, but I decided to leave it as is. I would have preferred to make it look more like plaid or even pokadots, but it turned out looking like an uneven pattern of tiny squares or chips. It kinda goes with the rest of the vibe of the painting, and I also just need to move on. I’ve called it finished, and I went back to the childhood portrait. I’ve been working on her hair, and eyes. I want the eyes to be even thicker with paint. I have been mixing a phalo blue with some black, but it’s still a bit too dark for my liking. It will be such a slight change in color that no one will even notice that the color took up millions of my brain cells to land on that exact shade. 

Here it is as it is right now:

I’m still working on the Guggenheim application. The submission window opens in less than two weeks. I think I’m almost there. However, because of what happened earlier this morning, I feel like all this work will be for nothing, as I received a rejection from the Pollock-Krasner about an hour ago. I did look over the application that I submitted in January, and I see it’s not the greatest. The images I submitted weren’t so good either. Not their quality, but it was the choices I made. Maybe I wouldn’t give me a grant either. I guess I should feel damn lucky that I got one many years ago, but that took eight tries. This time, I’ve only tried twice. I’m bummed nonetheless, but it’s a competitive grant. I understand. I’m still totally bummed, though.

I usually get very sad when I receive rejections, but it never lasts long. The rest of the day kinda sucks, but I wake up the next day and I’m over it. Sometimes it doesn’t even last a whole day, but when I say I get sad, I mean I torture myself with how I’m a terrible artist and don’t deserve jack shit. I mean, no one really deserves money and accolades. Then again, no one deserves cancer, or being poor, or disabilities, or abuse. I don’t know. That was just something I told my brother about his cancer when he kept racking his brain about why he maybe deserved it. He wasn’t the best person, but still. No one deserves to be sick. 

On that note, I am seeing the neurosurgeon on Monday. I hope I’ll get some answers. Like, why might I deserve a brain aneurysm? Ha ha, just kidding. To be fair, I did stop talking to my brother (again, for the millionth time). I had to block his number. His voice messages were getting so incredibly abusive, I just couldn’t bear listening to them anymore. I suppose I will wait until the bitter end before I see him one last time to say goodbye. It fucking breaks my heart. But, between now and then, am I supposed to allow him to use cancer as an excuse to psychologically beat me up? I can’t handle it emotionally or mentally. What’s even worse is that a lot of people think I should endure whatever he throws at me because he’s dying. I KNOW he’s dying. It’s upsetting. He’s my only sibling and the last of the family I have left. People don’t understand how mental illness can put a dark hole in front of your face. Once I started thinking about harming myself, I had to block his number. What can I say? I guess I’m just thoroughly fucked up.

In any case, I wish him all the love in the world. I hope he will find peace between now and his death. It kills me to see him so tortured, but it will kill me to be further tortured.

So, back on the Sucker painting, I need to do more on those big black eyes, and paint the little jacket I was wearing that day. I vividly remember that picture day in kindergarten. I wound up with a funny face because I was trying to show my front teeth instead of smiling. I think I saw someone with a cool gap between their teeth, and wished I had one too. I was trying to make it look like I had one, but I didn’t, and my mouth came out all crooked. Now, as an adult (if you can call me that), I think it’s hysterical.