With every choice and action, a timeline of one’s life is drawn forward. And for every
possible choice and action that one could make but doesn’t, another possible world;
another possible self; another possible timeline unfolds in a separate direction that one can
never know. There are nearly an infinite number of ways
for how Frank’s life could have gone. Many of which never went at all. But one in particular
went like this. Frank worked basically his whole life in pursuit
of one thing. What started as just a youthful attraction, mostly nothing more than a seed
of innocent curiosity and seeking of identity, grew more and more with time into the central
focus of his life. In general, very few youthful interests remain
steady and properly held together through the storm of aging into adulthood. But for
Frank, painting did. Born with a congenital limb length discrepancy,
as a child, Frank’s left leg was about 2 and a half inches longer than his right, more
or less condemning him to a lifelong limp that would only really improve following several
surgeries once he was older. Because of his condition, he was unable to participate in
the more traditional physical activities that a young boy might otherwise be compelled towards.
Moreover, throughout his early childhood, he was often ridiculed or ignored by many
of his peers because of his limp and was a rather isolated and sad child. Art was the
perfect outlet for Frank where mostly everything came together for him.
Throughout high school, Frank took as many art classes as he could, and unlike most of
his other classes, he took the ones he did seriously. He spent much of his time outside
of school working and learning about art as well, studying from the greats and developing
his own unique understanding, preference, and style.
Following high school, he went to college at the University of Pittsburg and majored
in studio arts. Frank was a slightly below average student
in high school and mostly stayed the same in college. His focus and academic efforts
were fairly concentrated towards his art courses and his own personal art projects. However,
even despite his hyper focused efforts, his art seemed to remain relatively average as
well. His work was strange, but not in a way that seemed to translate very well. Generally,
in college, he was one of the better ones in most of his low-level classes, but only
one of the average ones amongst the better ones. And in some of his higher-level classes,
he was even told by a couple professors on multiple occasions that his work was unsatisfactory,
lacking in clear method and technical understanding, and too focused on concept rather than arrangement
and execution. He barely made it by with low Cs in two senior level studio art classes.
Despite how good he was or wasn’t, though, Frank felt this hunch that he was or would
be. Perhaps it was more of a desire than a hunch, but it was no less a sense of something.
A sense that he had something in it; a tethering to his being that felt almost divinely facilitated.
He couldn’t help but become addicted to the feeling that art and painting gave him;
it was both an escape and entrance to himself. This addiction formed a continued, and for
the time being, unshakable obsession and dedication towards art.
This obsession was relatively benign during high school, and for the most part, during
college as well. However, as he aged through, out of, and beyond college, his dedication
mostly remained, but its value only seemed to wane.
By his early 30s, Frank had tried for over a decade to make a name and career for himself
in the art world. He tried relentlessly, making great sacrifices in his life otherwise. He
moved to certain areas, took and quit certain jobs, started and ended friendships and relationships,
let go of opportunities; all for the purpose of pursuing his art as much and as well as
he could. Despite his efforts, though, he had still by this point found no real success.
By most standards, he seemed to lack a technical ability that could fit commercial work. And
even in the more core art scenes, his work mostly didn’t seem to fit either. On a variety
of occasions, some of his work was accepted into small local, underground-type galleries
and exhibitions, but these would do very little for him and his career. And worse yet, even
at this level, his work was often criticized by peers and critics of the art community,
some of which described his work as tasteless, crude, or quote, “not art.” Those who
did like his work though, seemed to like it a lot.
Ultimately, Frank was stubborn. He had the sort of spirit of obsession that couldn’t
easily be beaten out of him. Not to say that life wasn’t trying. Throughout this time,
he in fact teetered back and forth between quitting and continuing, constantly almost
letting the fire burn out, but then saving it upon the final embers, assisted by any
of puffs of positive feedback he might receive. He was always a man of full commitment, so
he was going to either try all in or not at all.
As a result, though, his continued dedication posed a variety of challenges on his life.
By this point, Frank lacked any real experience or interest in much of anything other than
art, and so, he mostly found himself stuck with jobs that were, for all intents and purposes,
rather horrible, tedious, and low paying. A variety of the sort of stockroom, data entry,
or office temp type jobs that can pull the soul from your skull if you aren’t careful.
But he kept his down, tried his best, and did what he had to do to get by and focus
on his art as much as he could. Throughout his mid 20 and early 30s, Frank had very little
money and a lot of stress. He often found himself struggling to make ends meet, and
moreover, he often fell into great pits of depression and drunken spirals of disarray
over his lack of success and the life that he had found himself in. Ultimately though,
wise or unwise, he continued to stay and return to painting and art as his central focus during
this time. As Frank aged into his later, mid 30s, at
a certain point, he became considered by many standards that of a failure. His friends and
family; strangers and women he would meet; all thought he was both foolish and borderline
insane to still be pursuing what seemed like mostly a lost cause.
His aging mother, who always envisioned a prosperous and successful son, worried about
Frank. In part because she worried about his wellbeing, but mostly because she hated how
he reflected on her and the family. Both Frank’s mother and father had and continued to cringe
every time they were asked about Frank at family parties, gatherings with friends, or
work-related events. They hated exposing the shortcomings of their son because it felt
as though it exposed their own. And so, they would often embellish or make up stories to
aid in how Frank came off. They never understood what he was doing and why. The art seemed
like nonsense to them and the general opinion of the public seemed to agree. They always
told Frank that he should go into something more viable like marketing. When they would
occasionally talk, Frank’s father would say things like, “After a certain amount
of time, it’s either a hobby or nothing, Frank. That time has long come and gone.”
or, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting
different results.” Frank would hear any and all of the variety of clichés that could
be used against him, but for every cliché that could be used against him, Frank could
think of an equal amount that could be used in favor of him.
Ultimately though, at a certain point, Frank didn’t know where that put him. He was nearly
broke, living on barely anything, unable to start and support a family even if he wanted
to, disapproved by the family he had, and disliked or unknown by most of his peers.
He felt weak and incompetent, beaten down by the arbitrary game of life he couldn’t
seem to get a good hand in. The later he went into his 30s, it only continued
to become harder and harder to reconcile the difference between the world’s perception
of him and his own. He didn’t necessarily care how he was seen by others, but he was,
by now, having a nearly impossible time not seeing himself mostly the same. The world’s
perception of him creeped further and further inside his own skull. After enough failure,
a man comes to the point where he has to decide whether or not he himself believes he in fact
might be one. One night, in the last year of his 30s, Frank
felt a strange pain in the back of his neck. It wasn’t a normal pain that he might otherwise
feel from horrible sleep or stress, but an extremely tight and viscous pain that he had
never felt before. It was within bearable limits, though, and it mostly subsided after
a few minutes, so he didn’t think much of it. But then, over the next couple days, it
happened again and again, seemingly worse each time, expanding into his head and bringing
with it a nausea and feeling of disorientation that was impossible to ignore.
What was weird is that Frank’s doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong. He had Frank undergo
several different tests, but there appeared to be no sign of any ailment, internal physical
injury, malformation or otherwise. His doctor essentially said that if Frank wasn’t experiencing
any symptoms, he would have given him a clean bill of health. He prescribed Frank the migraine
medication almotripton and told him to notify him if things got any worse.
As days progressed, Frank became more and more ill, losing energy, exhibiting unusual
behaviors, and falling into what seemed like constant discomfort and pain. Frank promptly
contacted his doctor again, who then referred him to several specialists, who he scheduled
appointments with the following week. On the Sunday of that weekend, Frank was found
dead in his apartment. He was 39. Following his death, an autopsy revealed a
tiny edema, or swelling in the frontal lobe of his brain, which would have likely caused
a slow disruption of the blood flow until eventually it built up into, presumably, a
stroke. It was too tiny to be noticed until it was too late not to be.
Frank died essentially with nothing to show for his life in terms of traditional success.
Whether or not that matters at all is subsequent to the fact that he died without ever accomplishing
what he dedicated his life too and believed his life to be for. He died without ever feeling
like he was who he thought was or could be. He died in the eyes of everyone who knew him,
including himself, a failure. However, perhaps far, far sadder than all
of that is what Frank didn’t know and now, could never know.
In life, for every choice and action, a timeline of one’s self is drawn forward. And for
every possible choice and action that one could make but doesn’t, another possible
world; another possible self; another possible timeline unfolds in a separate direction that
one can never know. There are nearly an infinite number of ways
for how Frank’s life could have gone. Many of which never went at all. But one in particular
went exactly the same except one thing. On one night, a couple weeks prior to the
day he died, Frank decided to start a new art piece instead of going to a bar. And because
he didn’t go to the bar, he didn’t get drunk. And because he didn’t get drunk,
he never drunkenly fell forward and hit his head on the corner of the lower section of
a stop sign while trying to catch a cab in a mild blackout that he wouldn’t remember
the next day. Because he never sustained this seemingly mild, forgotten, and hangover concealed
head injury, his brain never developed a swelling, and thus, he never died at age 39.
Instead, he kept on living normally, and kept on working on that new art piece. And about
7 months later, that piece got noticed by an art dealer who happened to be visiting
and scanning local galleries, who told Frank that the piece had a standout raw quality
that was exactly what he was looking for. The dealer went on to eventually sell that
art piece for $17,000, ultimately igniting Frank’s career.
Working with the art dealer over the following several years, by around 43 years old, Frank
would go on to become world famous in the art world, and then, eventually, famous in
the world at large. His career would blossom more and more, allowing him to work full-time,
all-in on his art, and make a more than comfortable living doing so. Both during and after his
lifetime, he would be thought of as a leading figure of his generation, regarded for being
significantly ahead of his time and uniquely distinct from any other art movements and
styles. His inovative work would be mimicked by artists to come, and the rippling effects
his conceptual style provoked artistic and cultural movements that reverberated into
the future indefinitely. Frank was right. Either in the fact that he
was built to be a successful artist, or in the fact that he would eventually build himself
into one. But, in the version of the world that he knew;
in the version that came true; he was dead. He not only died before he knew his work went
on to be of great success but died before his work ever did.
In truth, there are a lot of Frank’s timelines that wouldn’t have gone that way. One’s
where he didn’t die early, but he was dead wrong about his abilities, nonetheless. But
one never knows which timeline they’re on. And one never knows how close they are to
success on the one they are. And the world does not and can never know
those who gave up slightly too soon to find out.