art and attitudes

by Bing Futch

I left Los Angeles, California with only my blue Metro convertible, a couple of keyboards and a trunk filled with non-poisonous snakes. Arriving here in the wet meadowlands of central Florida in 1993, I promptly stepped into a job waiting tables at the Hollywood Diner on U.S . 192. Stints at Sea World, Universal Studios and Disney followed before I went “pro” in 1995, began working out of the studio and performing live. It was a little difficult to remain cheery, and a good part of my problem was not being able to see the joy for the bullshit. To be fair, times have been both good and bad–but not until recently has my general attitude been a positive one. The longer you tread soil on earth, the easier it is to get jaded, worn out on the concept. Grasping the magic you felt as a child is more difficult as you grapple with the day-to-day concerns of adulthood. The Responsibility Of Life. Now just add the fact that you’re an artist, prone to moodiness, capable of violent mood swings and deep, deep depression. Capital gains is on the brain, and who can’t help it when you’re going insane wanting sushi and egg nog, maybe even a new car–but you can’t do any of that, because just paying rent is killing you and it seems that any money that gets plunked into your art stays there.

It’s an investment, this is true.

No sane person could ever enter into such a lifestyle willingly, which propels me to think that all artists are certifiably mad. It may exist at a subconscious level for some people, but undoubtedly just a little wacky upstairs. But then there is love for the simplest of things. Some who wait an extra minute to watch the sun disappear over a building or stoop to wipe a raindrop off of a rose petal. They who worship their art as it worships them, they are the free–we who allow the art to transform us are Disciples Of The Free. It’s all pretty heavy and spiritual, which is why a good number of people are content to eat beanie-weanie mix and live a day-by-day existence for the sake of freedom to pursue their artistic dreams.

There’s a lot of folks of this type in Orlando and parts beyond–I’ve met them in the clubs and watering holes far south as Miami and near north in Tallahassee. The art is their life- -it exists because it needs to, whether as an extension of the artist or as a communication to whomever has sense to receive the message. That, and the chance of being discovered, sponsored, supported, funded, encouraged, contracted–well, it all equals The Dream.

For some, accomplishing just the chance is akin to chasing the phantasm. Dollars invested with an eye only towards return–hours spent perfecting a product particularly for the purpose of pimping some propaganda. These people are more focused on the promise of money and not only is it the root of all evil, but it’s not a forever deal like the magic created at the hands of The Artist. Something they can never take away, priceless in its concept, precious in its niche. These are the jewels that lay glittering on a beach for many to enjoy.

You simply have to watch for crabs as you walk.