Artist Story: Johnny Knight

How magnificent, to live the life of the working artist. Work? It’s great, I tell you! I get paid to do what I love. Most artists work a job to pay the bills; I get to pay the bills with the same camera that feeds my art. Beats telemarketing. Right?

Sure, my greatest passion is for pictures no one hires me to take. But I try to let my work placate the muse. I churn out pretty pictures for my client base all year. I make actors look intriguing and, I daresay, hot. I help the noble theatre artist tell his story. (Never mind my own stories, I get paid. At least enough to keep the basic cable on.) O, for a muse of dependable income!

“If you play for a living, you’ll never work again.”

You’re right, inner monologue! That makes a lot of sense. I ought to drool with joy each minute of the day. I’ve got a great job, a great wife, and I live in a great town. My life should be its own reward...

***

I slouch home exhausted after twelve hours at the office. I drop my bag. I sit. The quiet settles in… In the back of my head… a glimmer…something I saw on the way home... A spark ignites a thought. A woman with a pompadour, a bright white summer dress…she’s glam and graceless all at once…

But you know, I’m tired, and SportsCenter is on…then Conan. That’s what I need tonight: two hours’ worth of easy, then a bed. Wherever that fire was leading me, I’ll have to get there later.

***

I wake up groggy, wash my face, and check my Blackberry. Four appointments today. Man, I’d better shave.

“What was that thing you thought of late last night?”

Huh? Don’t bother me now, I’m making some calls. Gotta keep moving.

“Then why that heavy stillness in your chest?”

Months go by.

***
Creative hibernation, that’s my euphemism. I’ll pop out of it any day now. Any day. It’s not the boss of me.

Mechanically, I’m fine, but behind my eyes there hangs a stoned, distracted daze. Outside, it masks itself with a friendly phone voice and frequent bank deposits. People ask what’s on my mind; I rattle off a list of business obligations. Oh I’m fine. Work work work. That snares me some admiration, at least. I hit my talking points and drift back into the fog.

I grope around inside myself. I diagnose. (There are many who self-medicate, and I can’t say I blame them.) Once I recognize the condition that should be half the battle. Only it’s a hell of a foe. An uninvited troll, enormous, sleeping face down in my chest – it’s passed out in my soul. I poke its comatose, fat ass and nothing shifts. What is that thing? It looks familiar…

Inertia.

Ugh.

What brings this on? I check my PDA and see I haven’t done a shoot that wasn’t client-funded for – oh crap – four months. No, six. Wait, that one last July – was that…?

“You used to play. Now you work.”

That woman in her bright white dress. Where’d she go? A fledgling story, never fully formed, ejected from the nest.


***

Great stories, they abound. A muse might share a subway pole with me, three inches from my face, but I’m oblivious. When jobs were sparse, each face I saw was beautiful and strange. A single smirk across the room would nestle in my mind for days on end. I’d listen for the unexpected giggle coming from the morgue. I was fascinated by the man who fought so fiercely with the world; he never saw its beautiful absurdity. I used to satisfy my soul by taking pictures of that man. If I keep on like this, that man will be me.

Okay, time to shove the troll aside.

And so begins the movie montage. Cue the music: Eye of the Tiger. (Thanks, Persepolis!)

Leave the house for fun. Make time for movies, novels, art museums. Ask questions of my friends, and when they answer, listen. Eat less. Walk more. Ignore the tube. Send an e-card to the wife, and clear the dirty laundry off the bed.

Every day, plan a project that will never make me money.

“Nice idea. Now follow through.”

A week goes by, then two. Each new day, I wake up dreaming. I’m walking end to end in my apartment. There’s a bride in the back of my head. She’s sitting lonely in a shopping cart: beatific, lyrical. Funny. Her image won’t leave me alone. Now I’m calling models, booking spaces, buying costume dresses by the closet-full.

***

I’ll be damned –the troll is gone. Holy hot-cha, he’s nowhere to be found! For months, he was the biggest thing in the room. I stared at the ceiling, I shut my eyes; he haunted my peripherals. For some strange reason, though, I didn’t notice when he left.

Fair enough. Let him wander. I’ve got stuff to do.

“Bodies in motion tend to stay in motion.”

God I hope so.


Johnny Knight is a performing arts photographer, occasional writer, devoted husband, and soon-to-be father. He teaches Creative Portraiture and Lighting at the Chicago Photography Center. His photo series “Her Special Day: A Gallery Of Elegant Brides” has been featured in various art fairs and the Estrogen Fest. He thanks his wife Anne for her support and love. Despite his griping, he’s grateful for all he has; he knows that countless artists have it worse.