Digging Deeper -- Sonichu & Christian Weston Chandler

[Hey everyone, sorry this is so late, I came down with a cold and was recuperating. Next essay still coming Sunday.]

Christian Weston Chandler is a fascinating human being, in part because he's revealed so much information about himself. There are nearly endless aspects of his personality and past to pick apart, and there is even a list of these traits on the CWCki, called the “Chris and...” series, including but not limited to: anger, money, the law, sex, religion, and remorse. There's a special category of person, however, who view him a bit differently: any artists I've met who have seen Christian seem to develop a deep-seated fear, and there's good reason—all successful artists of any medium can relate to him.

I went to a public arts school, which meant that everyone I knew was an artist in some form. Observing them, I noticed the trend that artists grow in stages, and very early on, there is a pivotal stage that artists must pass: overattachment. Most people have met an overattached artist in their lives—they're the kind of person who has this genius idea or setting or character and are just bursting at the seams to do them justice, usually as a series of long novels or movies. Winged humans are often involved. If done correctly, the overattached artist insists, their concept would blow away the world. I should know; I've been that artist. While I still maintain that my idea would be cool to do at some point, I've also come to understand that it's not the story to end all stories, much like every teenage artist has had to admit that “DarkShade the Fallen Angle” [sic] is not the raddest dude ever, even though he dual-wields katanas.

Christian is an example of a person who never moved out of that stage. Sonichu, he claims, was originally created for a high school computer graphics project, in which he was supposed to create the cover for a fake album, a common assignment for this kind of class. However, when the teacher disallowed him from using copyrighted characters, he had to find another way to include Sonic the Hedgehog and Pikachu. Though Sonichu still implicitly infringes on copyright, it seemed different enough to pass for the teacher, thus earning him his first vindication. Christian also claimed he received an A+ for the assignment, but he is also a compulsive liar.

After this, Christian seemed to latch onto the character. (This wasn't his first recolored Sonic character. He had made one for fun earlier, named Bionic the Hedgehog, brother to Sonic the Hedgehog. The name is a misnomer; rather than having any bionic body parts, his name is a portmanteau of the words “Basketball” and “Sonic”) He thought his creation was genius and started crafting a world around it, then inserted himself into it. As mentioned, this isn't an uncommon practice among high schoolers, even using characters that clearly break copyright law; most artists outgrow it, or at least choose not to pursue art, leaving the idea to languish. Christian never took either option. Instead, his art stagnated as he grew more and more obsessed with his setting, bloating the roster of characters.

Another aspect of the sophomoric artist is the belief that the characters as a whole are so fantastic that they alone would be able to sell any story in which they are set, as long as people were willing to give them a chance—this is the premise of most failed webcomics. But Christian, with nobody to stop him, continued creating for his hypothetical audience who would one day come to love Sonichu. Over a decade later, his art is just as undeveloped and his fervor just as extreme.

While terrifying, this is not the most terrifying aspect of Christian. As I mentioned, most artists have moved past this point, and so Christian is more of a congratulations for slogging past that period, and may be a warning to those in that phase to shy away from wantonly overcommiting to an idea. The fear that sits with artists is something more existential.

When Christian first gained notoriety online, many began teasing him and insulting him, but others recognized that, if they were to milk this “lolcow” any further, he would need more than prodding—he would need encouragement. And so, some messaged him to praise his artwork and his “inspired” storytelling. Christian began posting “mailbags,” in which he responded to “fanmail.” Most of the letters to which he responded complimented his artwork while asking personal questions about himself, stroking his ego in multiple ways at once. Gullible as ever, his ego engorged with the messages, and he used it as vindication to continue posting his work.

This is the true fear of artists: that praise is disingenuous. It's no secret that artists flourish more in supportive environments, and this often starts with a mother complimenting a child's macaroni painting or crayon doodle. Though some artists make purely for themselves, most intend their work for some sort of audience, and if the audience enjoys it, then there is incentive to continue and improve—but there is a fear deep within every artist that their praise is false, that, just as their mother lied to them about the artistic grandeur of their crayon doodle of their house, their parents, and their dog, their current audience is lying to them or, perhaps, softening the critical blow. Christian isn't the terrifying figure himself; it's what he implies could be true.

But artists can take heart, for none of this would be possible without certain aspects of Christian's personality, namely his ego. He makes no secret that he thinks Sonichu is a stroke of genius, and has even solicited both Nintendo and Sega to make games and shows based on himself and Sonichu (mostly himself). Though many high schoolers have done similar, most learn humility. Christian, on the other hand, believes that each new release is a glorious work of art even before it's published online, which perpetuates a circular, ego-stroking logic. With the quality of his comics assured, there is little incentive to put very much effort into drawing them—the more the page fills with images and words, the more fulfilled he is, knowing that whatever he makes, the true fans will enjoy it. The feeling is similar to watching an experience point bar fill, and the “level up” comes when the comic is released. After getting this first taste of support, he began releasing his comics a page at a time as they were completed, rather than as a whole issue, in order to reach that high sooner.

It's fairly easy for an artist to avoid becoming the next Chris-Chan. There are two things to ensure: the first is to maintain a sense of self-awareness. An artist should generally be able to test their work against the work of others and determine some measure of quality. It also helps to have a trusted group of friends and contemporaries who are willing to give reliably honest feedback, and the best way to ensure their honesty is to refrain from defending a piece while it's being criticized—after all, this person is acting as a mock audience, and the artist can't hover over the shoulder of every reader/viewer/listener while they're reading/viewing/listening to it. Instead, the artist should take the criticism graciously. After all, the artist now has the opportunity to avoid that kind of negative reaction when it's finally released to the world.

This ties closely with the second insurance policy: always continue improving. Christian, after determining that his work was sufficient to elicit a positive reaction, stopped making any attempt to improve. A good artist, on the other hand, will consistently be searching for some small way to make their art better, whether by observing other artists or observing their own work for flaws or potential improvements. There is no such threshold for art that, when reached, marks it as “good enough.” There is only the sisyphean task of continuing to hone one's craft, finding out what can make it better, more meaningful, or simply more pleasing. As long as you keep improving, the existential fear that Christian Weston Chandler invokes may be assuaged.

Christian, to me acts as inspiration. Not in the way that some great athlete acts as a goal; he's more like the gates opening at the Running of the Bulls.