Being an artist has led me to worlds I never thought I’d traverse. I grew up a geeky middle class kid who made mediocre grades and never felt particularly adventurous. My room was my cave, and I always preferred staying in there and listening to music, watching movies, or reading books. I felt ‘just ok’ at life itself. I always used art to escape reality and worked at making my own art for the same purpose. At first I had the childhood delusions of future fame and success but reality soon leveled that.
I found myself in my early twenties, in a spanish rock band that did not satisfy me creatively or financially. My resistance to socializing probably played a big role in limited the people I knew, and it seemed as if this path towards my childhood visions was corrupted. I hadn’t realized fully yet that making music for one’s self is more rewarding yet far less glorious. Then a case of depression and anxiety rendered the idea of pursuing art out of the question. I took some years off to study. I graduated, did drugs, and hung out with friends. I was going to be a writer or a historical/literary researcher. Life would be quiet and predictable.
Then it came back. The itch to make as much art as possible ate through my journalism degree, my part time office job, and my resolve to never afflict the world upon myself again. So that’s how I’ve found myself here. Never expecting to be going on these long drives to places I’ve hardly heard of, to have these experiences involving loud music and sweat and not a lot of money.