by James Love
James Love
© 2026 The Love Trollinger Initiative LLC. All rights reserved.
I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember. Originally inspired by comic heroes and cartoons like Earthworm Jim, I believed I would grow up to be a comic book artist. That didn’t happen. Poetry entered my life differently—long hours sitting in cars freestyling over beats with my friends, or texting lines back and forth to see if they landed the way we hoped. I never produced an album or published a poetry book. Art was simply something I participated in. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I loved being in it.
At some point, I imagined my artwork could become a container for my most intense feelings and experiences—that this was what artists were supposed to do. The ones I admired seemed to combine expression with mind-altering substances in pursuit of “truth,” and I assumed that was the path I needed to follow. I thought I had discovered the creative blueprint, and that historic artistic success was just a matter of commitment and endurance. That…did not happen.
After leaving Asheville—right before Helene hit—I felt unmoored. The artists I once spent time with were no longer around. The conversations, the planning of exhibitions, the shared momentum—it all faded. My attention shifted almost entirely to caring for my ill mother. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what art-making had meant to me in the first place. What had once been an innocent and meaningful activity became a strategy—a way to make money. That’s where I went wrong.
Making art didn’t save my life. Not even the money that came from selling work. I confused the tool with the source of strength. What carried me through was faith—the belief that I could endure whatever was in front of me. Art was part of that process, but it wasn’t my savior. It wasn’t a mystical force guiding my life toward some inevitable success. It was a processing tool. A kind of spiritual storage space—a place to hold ideas, questions, and possibilities while I worked through difficult seasons.
I understand now that my internal faith did more for me than art-making ever could on its own.
Because of that, I’m more intentional now—about when, how, and why I make art. I’m intentional about what I share and when I share it. And I’m especially mindful that my creative abilities are not meant to serve only my own well-being, but the well-being of others.
If any of this resonates with you—if you’re rethinking your relationship with creativity, faith, or purpose—I’m open to conversation.
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