I felt impressed by my own lack of shame, my obsessiveness, my insatiable desire to keep Sandy in my life through art. I was spending hours and hours of class time, and hours and hours of free time, making portraits of someone with whom I’d had nothing. The art was, in fact, making any future relationship with Sandy impossible. Even if he were to magically appear before me again, or if I were able to find him on Myspace, the art I had made of him was too much, too crazy, my feelings too out of touch with reality. I could never explain that I had made fifteen portraits of him in at least five mediums over the course of eight months.
It was horribly pathetic, and yet I didn’t care. Actually, I liked the fact that I might appear pathetic through my art. Or I liked that I had deliberately chosen to make myself appear that way, instead of it happening on its own without my specific approval, as it had in the past.
My obsession became more interesting to me than the content of my work, which is to say that I found myself interested in myself, which was new and exciting. I liked that I was becoming the kind of person who would prioritize art making over protecting my own image as a nonpsychotic person.
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