Donnie Lang — In His Own Words

My name is John. My first niece couldn't say the J sound — so for all seven nieces and nephews, and pretty much everyone else, I've been Donnie ever since.

I never had a troubled childhood. I didn't come from a broken home. My parents divorced early but there was stability, there was family. No history of addiction, no trauma to point to. I was a typical middle class kid growing up in the suburbs of Long Island.

I just always felt like I was searching for something.

37 years later, after over a decade of drug use and a life that went places I never could have imagined as that kid, I still can't tell you what I was looking for. That's the funny part.

This is a story too many people and families already know. I can't tell you why I was spared from the full depth of where that road goes for so many. I only have one word for it — Grace.

What I can tell you is that the searching didn't start in darkness. It started the way it always does — temporary relief that turns out to be a lie. After a decade of looking for something in drugs and crime, what I really built was a life accountable to no one. Starting with myself. That's part of why sobriety is so hard. You don't build a conscience from scratch — you own everything you've done or been party to. Every decision, every person affected. The line in the sand that represents my morality is steadfast today because I know exactly where it is. I know the points I refuse to cross. I know because I've seen the other side of them.

The first thing I ever made was a horse for my sister. Cut by hand, figured it out as I went. The inspiration came from Sean Guerrero — known as Bumper Hunter — a metal artist who builds sculptures from hand cut pieces of chrome car bumpers. My family has always been horse people so I ran with it. His approach to depth and dimension directly influenced the style of the mane on that first piece.

There's a drawing by Derek Hess that hit me as a teenager in a way I couldn't explain at the time. At 37 I understand exactly why. His work speaks to self destruction — the weight we beat ourselves with, how easily we carry everything on our own shoulders without realizing someone else already took that crucifixion for us. I call my interpretation of it "Self Crucifixion." I started it during the worst years and never put it down. It has hundreds of hours in it. The finish has been stripped back to bare metal and started over more times than I can count — everything except the original cut. The scars are part of it. They're part of what makes it what it is.

I work across steel, stainless, wood and plastic. Raw unfinished material, painted surfaces, torch burnt finishes. The contrast between materials isn't just aesthetic — it represents something. Contrast is life. The rough next to the refined. The dark next to the light. That's what I'm working with, in the metal and everywhere else.

I can't tell you what any of it will mean to you. That's yours. What brings pain out in one person brings hope to another. That's the point.