An Impromptu Interview

Personal Essay

Photo by Jené Stephaniuk on Unsplash

I’ve been so fucking lost and lonely lately. I’m constantly on the verge of giving up on my current writing project, a serial publication on Substack. I’m not sure how many of you even know what a Substack page is. I’m a writer and I didn’t know about it until about 6 months ago when my friend Keith recommended giving it a go as a way to share my work. I’ve come to despise Substack in a way. I’ll admit that most of this hatred comes from the fact that my page has not been an all out success story. Substack is in no uncertain terms a social media platform for aspiring writers. There are also noteworthy authors found in the ranks. For instance, I follow Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Sherman Alexie, who may not be as well known to some of you, although you may have seen the film Smoke Signals, based on one of his short stories. So what I’m saying is that there are notable authors found within Substack and I do think it’s quite groovy to have my own little page alongside some great writers. Plus, I adore the people who have subscribed to my page and let me into their lives. These folks may not realize it, but I’m writing for them. Most of my fifty some followers have been there since day one and I’m grateful to have an audience, no matter how small.  

But back to being lost and lonely. I’ve recently been trying to promote my page, posting shameless ads on instagram and facebook, inviting friends and family to check out and support my writing. However, it’s led to extra time on social media in general, which to be honest is not great for my mental health. I’m a broke single guy in his mid-thirties and although I feel blessed for the life I have, it is difficult to spend the extra hours scrolling and realizing that all my friends have wives and husbands, daughters and sons. And on Substack I can’t help but compare myself to the writers who crank out piece after piece and have thousands of subscribers. Thank god for Bella, my little Chihuahua. She may be tiny, but she has a stupendous influence on my world. She helps keep me sane, well, relatively speaking. 

So, the extra time on social media has got me down. I know I’m not alone here. But that’s not all that has me singing the blues. The big writing project that I’ve chosen to embark on is what I’m referring to as a “fictional memoir.” However, it’s really more about remembering. I’m spending hours a day drifting down memory lane. I’ve been blown away by how much I can recall. At times it takes quite an effort to get to the place where the memories are clear and vivid, but once I’m there the memories flow as if a dam has given way. It’s difficult to sit with these visions and put them down into words. There is so much emotion attached to all of them, even the simplest of memories. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s healthy to spend so much time on a voyage through the depths of my subconscious. I miss people, people who have passed, people who have drifted out of my life, and I miss the places I once called home. But I also miss myself. The boy, the young man, the husband and the step dad. 

But, believe it or not, this piece is not actually about me. As I’ve been struggling through my writing this week, feeling on the verge of a breakdown, I met a new friend. We actually met  months ago at a bar downtown called Cork Street Tavern. 

It was getting late when Sam walked up. I’d been sitting there for hours, going back and forth between draft Yuengling and Seagrams VO. On one side of Cork Street you can smoke inside, so along with too many drinks there were too many cigarettes. I noticed Sam for two reasons. One, he encroached on my personal space. Just that little bit too close. Two, he was drinking coffee, rather than beer or booze. Sam is tall in stature with a full beard and a head devoid of hair. He lit up the room with his friendly energy, I remember that most upon meeting him.

We hit it off right away, skipping the pleasantries and getting straight into deeper topics. Both Sam and myself are diagnosed with a mental illness. Sam is schizophrenic, while I’m a bipolar psychotic. We are also both passionate about our art, Sam does oil paintings. We chatted about our lives, exchanged contact info, but then went our separate ways. 

So back to this lost and lonely week. It was probably 11 at night, I was on Facebook, messaging anyone who I thought would talk and distract me from my writing and misery. Then Sam popped up in my inbox. I guess I had told him my father may be interested in purchasing one of his paintings, all those months ago at Cork Street. I apologized, having forgotten to mention anything to my father. I just thought he was looking for a sale, needed some money or something. But a couple nights ago he called me, asking if I would like to come over. He said he could use some company. I was unsure at first, but there was something about Sam that intrigued me, plus I was desperately lonely. 

So I decided to strap Bella into the pouch I sling over my shoulder (it’s pretty much a dog purse), and off we went down South Loudoun Street towards the walking mall. Sam welcomed me in with a hug and his signature smile. His apartment is modest, but it’s like walking into his personal art gallery. I realized right away that Sam wasn’t just a painter, but a prolific artist. Nearly every inch of wall is covered with various pieces, all of them entrancingly beautiful. I wanted to spend time with each piece, just taking them all in. But Sam is quite the host. He offered me a beer, although he’s not a drinker himself. I gladly accepted his offer and fell into a comfortable recliner with Bella snuggled in my lap. He then asked me if I smoked cigarettes, because he didn’t mind if I lit up in his place. I took him up on that offer as well, although now I regret it. But it didn’t seem to bother him, he just wanted me to be comfortable and to enjoy myself. Along with painting, Sam is passionate about music. Although perhaps a bit of a music critic or snob. I admitted to enjoying O.A.R. at one point, in which he couldn’t help but cringe. I understood. I tried to keep my attention on the conversation, but my eyes kept gravitating back to his artwork, as if each painting was calling out to me. 

Sam’s work is heavily influenced by Basquiat, Willem de Kooning, and Picasso. He describes his paintings as a mix between realism and the abstract, with a focus on patterns. Sam has his own signature style which is almost graffiti-esque. He uses nearly every color in each of his pieces, resulting in a very large palette. His art is almost exclusively faces, but it’s also so much more than that. He may use a picture as a reference for each face, but he never sketches before painting, he prefers that each piece comes out organically. Almost a kind of free-style painting. 

Art has been a passion of Sam’s for as long as he can remember. He traces his unique style all the way back to the 3rd grade, when he was featured in a calendar for the month of October. He drew witches, goblins, and of course, hidden faces. Later, Sam attended Military school where he met a very supportive art instructor, but more than any instructor, Sam explained to me that drugs have had the biggest impact on his art, as well as his personal life. 

As a young boy it started with ADHD medication, then he began abusing Ritalin, then in community college he turned to Adderall and finally Dexedrine. All of these drugs seemed to help him focus and advance his art tremendously. 

Initially Sam’s work consisted of very intricate pen drawings until a friend asked him to paint the side of his truck. Sam admitted to not knowing how to paint, but offered to try it anyway. He fell in love with it. But it wasn’t long before Sam’s drug use caught up to him. In college he had turned to speed, excessive amounts of speed. Sam believes this is what led to his first mental break and resulting schizophrenia diagnosis. 

Sam admits it hasn’t been an easy road, something I can certainly relate to. He always thought that he needed the drugs to produce good work. For years he struggled with his mental illness and put his art aside. It wasn’t until the pandemic that he finally began painting again. But he hasn’t looked back since. Something I myself am grateful for. His art livens up your mood and pulls you in. There is a bit of mystery in each piece and the depth keeps you coming back for another look. 

Before I knew it the clock showed nearly 4 am. So I rose from my chair, packed Bella back into the dog purse, and headed towards the door. But there was Sam offering another hug. I have no doubt this man knew I was hurting in the worst way, his kindness refreshed my hope for the world. As Bella and I made the walk back down South Loudoun I continued envisioning Sam’s work in my mind and I realized that my favorite piece of abstract art in the place was Sam himself. A joyful, authentic man, and surely one of a kind. 

You can find Sam’s work at Samgrantham.com or visit Village Square Restaurant where Sam’s art is on display. Located on the Old Town Mall in Winchester, Virginia.