A real Gatekeeper would never do this…
My art career and constant fight with the worst gatekeeper (my brain).
“Ooooh, I wanna be like Yooooooo”
When I was a kid, my parents took me to See Disney’s “The Jungle Book.” The wonderful animated movie based off Rudyard Kipling’s stories gripped me like nothing else. Milt Kahl, one of Disney’s original “9 old men” drew memorable characters such as King Louie, Baloo, and Sher Khan. His work planted a seed in my young mind: I wanted to be a Disney animator and that’s all I ever wanted to do with my life.
I didn't know what being an animator entailed; I just knew it sounded magical to draw every day for the Mouse and be adored by millions. I'm 51 now, and I’ve not let that dream go. In all honesty, I'd still love to work for Disney Animation Studios but now-a-days, I’m ok with the fact that this may not be a possibility, and this is my story of why I’m ok with it.
“To the Left, To the Left”
Life has a funny way of not panning out as you expect to happen. Growing up in a small rural town in Alabama in the 80s, there was zero information on "how to become a Disney animator." Sure, my parents bought me art books, but all they stated was say you needed to learn perspective, shape design, value studies and color theory. These all seemed so boring. After all, as an artist, you're just blessed with a magic talent for creating great works of art while others aren't, right? That was me—blessed with a left hand and the ability to draw... like crap, because I didn't practice the fundamentals.
In our school system, reaching 9th grade meant moving up to high school, where I was most excited for Mrs. Rena Doty’s art class. I'd seen the great works of past high schoolers adorning the halls near her classroom and envied the artsy students obviously on their way to Disney. After what felt like an eternity, I finally entered Mrs. Doty’s magical classroom of art.
On day one, she walked in and said we'd start with the basics by drawing a still life: a cow skull, a flowerpot, some forks. "Draw this; it'll teach you 3D and perspective," she said.
Wait, what!? Where was the cool stuff? When do we get to draw Mickey, Spider-Man, or Michael Jordan? I didn't want to draw some pansy-ass vase with a dead bovine’s head. This was boring!
But as dull as it was, it's a necessary skill all artists should learn (even if I continue to hate drawing still lives). I slogged through it, hoping to finally draw like Disney's original animators, the Nine Old Men. I got an A—naturally, since I was a special unicorn left-handed artist, way cooler than anyone else in this godforsaken rural Alabama town. I was destined for Disney's studios at any moment, plucked straight out of the 10th grade. My time had come.
Cries, Lies and Naked Thighs
Now in my 50s, I look back and say, "Oh, my innocent naive self..." Since it was very difficult to find ANY information about how to become a Disney animator, frustration quickly set in. Researching this career path was limited to the public library and the Dewey Decimal System. All I found was that you needed to be really good at drawing heads. Easy, right? WRONG. Later, I discovered colleges like Ringling, CalArts, and SCAD were like farm leagues for animation studios. I thought I'd just go to one of those until I realized you needed to be damned good to get in and have a strong portfolio. I had a badly drawn Mike Tyson, some still life art of a dead cow head, and a half-drawn Spider-Man I swore I'd finish.
Fear of rejection loomed because I knew I wasn't good enough—YET, I would be, one day, I hoped. Whenever I told people I wanted to be an artist, they'd laugh and say, "Oh, you want to starve?"
That starving artist stereotype still lingers in my head constantly, thanks for all that impressionable influence you bestowed upon me, adults… I always dreamed of working at a shitty corporate job where you’re yelled at by middle management instead.
I was determined, but when my parents found out art school involved nude figure drawing classes, that was a deal-breaker. There’s no way any parental unit of mine was going to let me gaze upon the nakedness of the human body where my mind may go into forbidden longing like “oh, so that’s how skin folds over itself under clothes”. It’s this kind of salacious thinking that has made me the hideous monster who respects other people’s bodies, shapes, sizes, blemishes and beauty. Horrendous, I know.
So, instead I went to college and earned a degree in Theology and Philosophy, leading to prestigious jobs like: pooper scooper at a vet, telemarketer, bill collector, sub teacher, waiter and copy monkey at Kinko’s. (I know, jealous, right?)
The Mouse didn’t choose me, I chose the Mouse
Now in the proverbial real world, I took art classes when I could, piecing together my own education from others and books (this was before the internet was a click away). Every time I finished a workshop or project, I'd think, "NOW I'm ready to work for Disney." Once, I assembled what I thought was a solid portfolio and sent it to every animation studio I could find—33 in total. I spent countless hours and dollars on the portfolios, even had them blessed by a priest, some crazy guy on the bus claiming to be possessed by God and Rafiki, the shaman monkey from the Lion King.
Months later, the folios I’d sent out all came back stamped REJECTED. Well, except one and then the phone rang, it was Disney Animation Studios. They were calling to tell me they were rejecting me, and asked me to NEVER include glitter in my portfolio or they would take me out like a parent in one of their animated movies (the parents seem to all die, especially the moms).
Crushed but undeterred, I set my sights on comics. After all, that half-drawn Spider-Man showed potential, right? DC Comics was having a portfolio review nearby. I stood in line, portfolio in hand, expecting to be hired on the spot.
And…You guessed it—I didn't get hired. In fact, they laughed, thinking I was pranking them with my terrible portfolio. Absolutely crushed, I spiraled into a dark period, admitting I wasn't good enough for the animation industry (or any career in art).
Years later, trying to crawl out of major depression, swimming in debt, and stuck in dead-end jobs where bosses scolded me for doodling (or existing), I decided to get serious about art again. I looked for art that turned some light bulb on in me, found artists I admired, and started drawing like them while working every dead end job imaginable. I joined a little internet forum (pre-social media '90s) filled with industry folks and newbies that was started by Shane Glines. They answered my barrage of questions, encouraged me, and I began drawing incessantly.
I decided to try to get an art agent and now with the scars of seeing my portfolio be a joke from art directors, I knew I was going to be in for a tough ride, but I could endure it as I had a slightly hardened (and humbled) shell.
After countless rejections, I finally got an agent and honestly it was awesome as you can guess. To have a person with connections parade your name around to big wig clients was pretty damned sweet. It led to work at The Wall Street Journal as an editorial artist. Not Disney, but cool nonetheless. Then I got a temporary gig on OG Shrek at DreamWorks. Still not Disney. Offers from Condé Nast, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Coke, Spanx, Toyota, Snapple, and McGraw-Hill followed. Even with all these big named clients, I felt like a sub-artist because none of it was Disney. I had in my mind if I didn’t have Mickey’s stamp of approval, then I was destined to be nothing but a wannabe at very best.
But, at least I was making a living as an artist, albeit on a tight budget. Then 2007 hit with two monsters of destruction.
Is [sic] Our Children Learning?
Crowdsourcing emerged. Sites like Fiver and 99 Designs allowed clients to say they’d pay a small amount to several artists who would draw what they want and they’d choose the winner. Great for them, hell for artists… it was a race to the bottom, making it hard to compete, especially when people expected me to work for exposure and credit (which, last I checked, doesn't pay the bills).
The recession. With predatory lending and bank bailouts by our wonderfully erudite president at the time, my clients went belly up quickly, and I was left penniless and on the brink of checking into a homeless shelter, willing to work there in exchange for a room (I am prone to exaggerate my life however this part is not exaggeration).
You Don’t Know Jack(ie)
Little by little, I clawed my way back. I found work as an adjunct art professor at UAB, then I took a job at a tech firm to further sustain myself. In my mid 40s, I met Heather and even though we’ve been married for ::checks watch:: 45 minutes, it’s been the best time ever other than she keeps bringing up my life insurance policy, a car battery attached to a rope and a sailboat trip to the middle of the ocean. #pleaseSendHelp #sheCray
Honestly, had I never met Heather, I might have been one of those people you yell at to "get a job" while they are asking for money at the stoplight intersection.
One night Heather said “you used to draw right? Could you draw me some cats?” (She’s one of those childless cat ladies who works as a Palliative Care physician, improving quality of life for aging grizzled vets who served in our nation’s military). She asked me to draw some cats for
’s "Inktober" challenge—a fun way to boost art skills.Drawing those cats rekindled something of a fire inside of me as I’d all but given up on being any form of an artist. I missed it, terribly and was once again determined to make it to Disney come hell or high water. So, I got serious: hours of life studies, drawing in coffee shops until my fingers ached, sketching during pointless meetings that would have been better as an email, consuming mass numbers of online tutorials—draw, draw, draw. It was as if I was possessed by something greater than me. Honestly, it is still that way to this day.
I improved and applied to Disney again. Rejected. I made my portfolio stronger. Rejected. Then I got better and applied again. Rejected. So, I decided if I couldn't get into Disney, I'd bring Disney to me.
Over the past four years, among many other mentors, I contracted three people at the House of Mouse to take me on as a mentee. It was nothing short of amazing — and they were super tough but the payoff was great as my work improved 20 fold (Thank you Brandon, Ty and Jackie). They taught me things I should've learned decades ago but luckily this old dog has no problem learning new tricks.
My last and final mentor that worked with Mickey was Jackie Droujko, the toughest and one of the best mentors I've ever had (and at the time of this writing, she’s got two spots left in her new mentorship, if you want to be a character designer, I HIGHLY recommend Jackie).
She's an amazing artist in character design with a resume longer than a CVS receipt, and she helped me craft a portfolio I'm damned proud of.
Thank you Jackie, thank you so much.
“We’re Caught in a Trap!” - Admiral Ackbar (probably)
I fell into a trap, though—which was constantly needing my mentors' validation. If I didn't get praised, I felt like a failure. This self-sabotage was further exacerbated when I'd post on Instagram, getting wrapped up in the likes and comments of the nameless, faceless many. This is a horrible pitfall of the comparison/validation game that social media has created and no wonder we have such terrible mental health problems these days. If only we had a way to access better mental health care and mental health facilities. Too bad it was obliterated in 1981 by a certain president…
But I digress, back to me. Now everything was set for my career at the House of Mouse. I could draw with finesse and confidence. I even started this here newsletter to document my journey toward character design in animation. After my final session with Jackie, who meticulously reviewed my work, I was slated to again attend the Lightbox Expo in Pasadena this year. I would present my portfolio to recruiters I'd connected with previously, and soon, I'd join the ranks of the titans at Disney Animation, in my true calling.
But then something strange happened. Beneath the facade of animated sequels, endless legacy reboots and singing mice, the industry was (is) in turmoil. Many of my animation friends—veterans of the industry—were suddenly unemployed. Studios were paying less, demanding more, and offering fewer benefits. I also felt the tug of age, as a now 50-something, I was up against Gen Z’ers who can draw literal circles around me. Also the rise of AI-generated imagery threatens to replace dedicated artists with tech bros typing prompts to create mutated characters—but hey, it saves money, right?
On top of that, Heather and I have aging parents, and we’re facing a decision to move away from the promised land (Austin), back to where we can be closer to our loved ones.
I stared at my portfolio, realizing that 15-year-old me would probably never work for Disney. And honestly? I'm okay with that. It's taken decades to be ok with that. Also, as a silver lining, I now am finally in a place where I don't need a studio to validate me. I don't even need to know if I'm "good." What is "good" anyway? It's subjective, and I've tried to erase that notion from my mind. I'm enough and you’re enough. I've dedicated my life to art, and that's enough.
So I Married an Axe Murderer
I guess I could go find another dead-end job and be miserable working under a bluish white halogen light being yelled at by middle management. I know lots of you creatively inclined people are having to do that to make rent, pay bills and then scrape the energy up to have a moment to even create something. As stated earlier, if it wasn’t for my Disney (Villianous-ish) queen of a wife, Heather, I’d working at SBUX then getting fired for spitting in a tech bro’s java latte. So Heather when you read this, thank you and I love you.
I'm enough as an artist, and I no longer feel like I need a studio's approval to be more than I already am. Fuck the gatekeeper culture and its effect on our mentality. And if you’re one of those people who loves to destroy the hopes and dreams of someone else who is brave enough to draw as a career? Fuck you, too. If everyone didn't have to work a "job”, many more would turn to art, music, poetry, and dance. My hat is tipped to those who know they are enough, as they try art and endure the hardships (and rewards) that come with being an artist.
One does not visit museums to see a presentation of “Bob” hunched over a desk getting yelled at by his fat-cat boss, or to witness some Bitcoin bro boasting about his hustle and worship of elon’s reproductive organ. No, you go to see art that connects with you emotionally, makes you think, makes you feel human, and reminds us all that we’re linked and here for something bigger than ourselves, or a better way to say it is “Ubuntu”. In fact you can experience that kind of Ubuntu this Saturday by Zoom with ’s Young Artists Expo (more information here)
If you create something, and there are no “likes”, no comments, no job offers, no shares—you've still expressed yourself creatively and not one person can take that away from you. And that's enough. You're enough, and I'm enough.
“No admittance except on party business” - Bilbo
So when the gatekeepers block you from getting into their cool kids club, (or if you’re like me, and that gate is in your brain) remember it’s just a gate. Spread your wings and fly over it. Your art matters, and it matters to the most important person on earth, you.
Um, YES. To all of this. I rarely read entire newsletter posts because obviously I have a ton of important things to do, like worrying myself senseless over $$$ and not working a traditional job or writing some really important book. No, my lifelong dream is to make COMICS DAMMIT, and this post--which I devoured greedily, every last cake-like word-crumb--is right on time. Thanks Thig thanks thanks thanks. #thanksthig
I was fortunate enough to be rejected everywhere by everybody all the time (I think there's a multidimensional movie in that) early in life, even as I plodded along the conveyor belt that belittles doctors in training. (Kudos to the Queen in that regard.) It seems emasculation is the coin of the realm in our little section of space/time, in every endeavor. By the time I decided to be an artist, the only critic I had was me - and the only criterion for success was whether or not the last art project made me smile. That seemed to be the key: If a piece tickled me, it was likely to waggle a feather at somebody else's funny bone. Either way, it's easier to live up to the rules if you make them yourself, and adjust them to your eventual comfort zone. I'm still eating regular meals, and still drawing. I win.