Damon King
I walk with slight liberation into my manager’s office, carrying my resignation. It is time. Time to be me, time to full fill my creative dreams and colour my life in with pure happiness. It has been too long working in dead end jobs that took me nowhere and most of my career decisions were based on desperation.
With nothing but steel cap boots and sweaty confidence, I place my departure letter on his desk. ‘So boss, long – but not so funny – story short, um… I quit.’
He continues to keep writing without acknowledging me.
With a slight clearing of my throat and foot shuffle I say again. ‘Did you hear what…?’
With interruption he places the pen down, fixes up his glasses, and looks up at me. ‘Yes, I heard what you said, and I really hope that you are joking as I have big plans for you, mate.’
I half-step back, a little less confident. ‘Unfortunately, not, boss, as I have bigger and better plans for myself.’
As for the rest of that conversation, it does not matter as that was my last day at the warehouse.
Growth always demands sacrifices. Money is not a factor, but my self-worth is priceless. Every day was a reminder that I was running out of it. I need to prove to my family and friends that I had made the correct decision, against all their quiet disbelief and selfish concerns.
For the next three months the flood gates of creativity and inspiration begin a new chapter in my life. I honestly believe in my heart of hearts that quitting my full-time job of two years to pursue self-happiness is the best decision I have made in a long time. My art is now my saviour, my existence, my life that I have always been searching for. It has engulfed me like a starving anaconda, swallowing me down whole, allowing me to fester in its stomach of self-imagination. I embrace the feeling of letting something you love so much consume you little by little – with mutual understanding, of course.
Since my youth, the need to create or express myself has always been a major interest or escape for me on many diverse levels. My art is non-judgmental, it holds no boundaries, it is my best friend. It gets me out of bed every morning, filling my head with nothing but creativity and reasons why I do this. The Australian dream, right?
Like mothers’ milk, I feel the sweet moistness of my Jim Beam dance on my nervous lips as I take a moment. A self-indulgent moment as I walk around my studio and first exhibition, smiling like a naughty private schoolboy. Warmness and contentment start to fill my heart as I am reminded that this is my world now, my sanctuary. It is about twenty-five minutes before opening night. I have done it. I have been a slave to the arts the past three months. Raising my head even higher, I see my art that I have created over the past three months hanging on the walls around me, all silently applauding me. I quickly look behind me into my private studio where random colour just bounces of the walls. Spray cans are scattered everywhere while the lingering mist of spray paint perfumes the air. My purpose has finally been created, a reason for being was now about to walk through the door. I now only have fifteen minutes until the doors open, I feel my heart quickly go up my sleeve to wait and hide.
‘It’s showing time, mister.’ My time.
As the red sold dots rapidly appear beneath my pieces I feel like a proud father. Taking another selfish moment – only this time in a corner – away from working the room and selling my soul to potential clients, I refresh my bourbon and light a ciggie. Everybody is here to see my talents, to see my art and support my passion- and of course the free food and alcohol. My mother, my father, my brother, and my sister were all here to see the black sheep they all knew become colourful. This sheep is shining bright tonight, driving the car of destiny.
Scanning the room, I hear the calming strum of the guitarist for the music as all my thoughts come together as one. My art is on show for the first time.
It is almost closing time as I usher the last of the drunk arty fart patrons out. I notice a sea of red dots littering the walls; I have almost sold out of my first art exhibition, yay for me. I plunge my fingers into my back pocket to find my lighter, as I wanted that cheeky joint I had prepared for this very moment. In doing so, I drop bundles of well-deserved cash onto the floor with a light giggle.
‘Let me help you with that, son.’ It is my mother’s voice.
I will just leave that Scooby in my back pocket for a bit later, I think to myself.
We both pick up the validated money from the floor and stand up. There are fifties and twenties filling both our hands. She smiles at me like a non-concerned mother should.
‘So, Mother, I hope this explains to you at bit more about me and what I am all about. This is what I am meant to do and, as you can now plainly see, I am pretty damn good at it.’
She stands there for a second and stares right into me, then smiles again. Sometimes no words say the most. Then, just like a loving mother would, she takes hold of both my wrists, nods, and pulls me close.
To this day, and after many successful exhibitions and having artwork all over the world, the thought of my family understanding me still lays unanswered. I know there is proud love there, but sometimes people do not need to be loved, they just need to be understood.
Author: Damon King is a mature age student in the third and final year of a BFA in Creative Writing at QUT. Over the past decade, being an artist of mixed media owned and dominated the creativity side opposed to my writing. Street art and graffiti was the starting point, then came multiple exhibitions, studios, and showings on professional levels. Artwork being purchased and commissioned from all over the world while building up a healthy presence on social media and travel-got my name out there. My writing has just re-discovered itself in the past few years, and it has been an exciting ride so far, so I am very interested to see where this takes me… @skullcapper @5kullc4p @johnnymahogany F.B Skull Cap (Brisbane artist)
Artist: Damon King
Edited by: David Uptin