I’ve Had an Epiphany

I’ve just realized I’m an artist. But wait! There’s more.

Since I was a wee little gal I’ve denied my artistic inclinations. When seemingly ancient 30-year olds asked me what I liked to do I would tell them I liked to draw and paint.

“You’re an artist!” they would say and I would correct them.

“No no. I just like those things.” What I was really thinking was, “Can-it lady. You and I both know there no hope in being an artist. I’m far too sensible to pursue art as a means of independence and societal success.” and I would adjust the bow in my hair and march off in my patent leather shoes.

I’ve just realized that titles people use like artist, scientist, or businessman are not titles at all. They are states of being or personalities or someone’s skill set. You’re not just a scientist. You are a physicist or biologist or herpetologist. A businessman could be a master of marketing or finance or sales. You can’t just put ‘Businessman” on your card because that only tells people the umbrella that your work falls under.

Artists are painters, writers, actors, illustrators, and there are even the productive kind of artists that create buildings and practical clothing for the elderly. I have perpetually denied that I am an artist because I even hate the word artist. I imagine turtleneck-wearing snobs in an art gallery raising an eyebrow at a green smear on a canvas and calling it extraordinary. I also imagine the psychotic, rage-filled artist that lives in a basement and screams a lot and paints things with their blood as a release of their soul into the universe.

I’ve realized that tons of my frustrations are due to the fact that I keep trying to fit myself into molds that aren’t me. Any mold except the artist mold. Maybe you could turn sideways and suck in your gut to just slip through the Doctor mold but when it comes time to choose a job under that umbrella you’ll have your back arched and your arms twisted around behind you and your feet pointed different directions just try to fit into the pediatric or dental mold. And that’s frustrating and unsatisfying and you’re denying yourself the comfort of the artsy mold right over there that’s shaped just like you and your wide hips.

In the end, you have to work and if that means contorting your body to fit an available and satisfactorily paying mold, then you take that job. But I think a lot of people are unsatisfied because they are trying to fit in a mold that isn’t theirs, maybe because it pays better or the work is easier or all your friends are doing it. Also, though there isn’t just one mold. I know lots of businessmen with artsy tendencies and scientists who dabble in culinary. I think it’s just that you need to know what umbrella you stand under naturally, then you can hop around and try out the molds under all the other umbrellas but still be considerate and aware of what feels right to you.

In other news, how great is this two-car garage apartment, huh?

Mom is back on a reorganizing bender and has picked out some paint colors for the living room and the downstairs bathroom. She continues to coax her elusive cat, Bobo, out from underneath Ellen's old bed. Apparently Bobo ventures around the house at night when everyone is sleeping.

Dad is still living in many U.S. states at once and drives all over the eastern seaboard. When he is home, he drives around town checking on housing projects and going out to breakfast with his friends. Sometimes he drives over to my house when I'm not home and surveys leaks and damages and occasionally insinuates that I am to blame. 

I get few updates about the Villards. Usually Ellen will call me when she is driving home from work, which is approximately only about three hours away from her bedtime. So when I ask her what she and Chris are doing tonight she responds with, "I don't know what he's doing. I'm going to bed." 

I feel as though Chris comes home from work at about 7:30 which is the time Ellen likes to get into bed to read and wind down before going to sleep at 8:00. 

I am kicking butt at the work place and have been accused of being too efficient. I usually finish the week's workload on Wednesday and have to stand around and pretend to be busy until the weekend. I can't stand that. 

As for weekends, two Sundays ago I joined Brett and Hayden for Second Sunday with their brand new roommate from California. Brett and Hayden found a swanky new apartment but it had a third bedroom and they are but a duo. A couple months of almost hopeless Craigslist searching brought them Erik, a solar power business manager relocating to Charleston to start the first East Coast branch. Erik is giggly and patient and is rapidly becoming one of my favorite people. That's him there, texting.

Now they all live together in a big house at the tip of a fork in the road. They sit together and watch lots of football and insult each other and laugh at misfortunes. I was worried about the slanderous way that men become friends. Erik seemed to avoid the disparagement of his new roommates and only friends in Charleston and I worried he was a really nice person living with two really sassy people. I worried that he would feel like he lived in their house rather than the house being one third his. But all this was for not because Erik is just an easy-going fella and saves up his witty put-downs so that he may rapid fire them when the other two least expect it. This brings them all great joy and they all seem like old, great friends. All of whom abhor my taking pictures of them.

Artsy Notes and Moody Pictures

I’ve waited to nearly exactly the middle of January to write this post because I was hoping to have permission to “publish” my Wedding Photography Workshop photos for you, alas we are still waiting for the green light from someone who wants it all to be tippy top secret until just the right moment. Seeing as I have a very small blog following here in the U.S. and a few loyal fans in Russia, (Privyet И spasiba!) I doubt anyone would ever find out that I “leaked” my own lackluster photos and yet, I’m afraid some fabulous wedding designer will find them and shun me from the industry I’ve only been a part of reluctantly.

I’ll save my photos for the next post but I have to tell you, the workshop was an eye opener. While I knew I had been winging this whole photography thing, I didn’t really realize how involved actual professional photographers are with every little shot they take. It’s like they know how to use all the settings on their camera or something equally preposterous. I discovered that I have all the wrong gear for shooting weddings specifically and all the little things I can see in my mind as a photograph but can’t make my camera see the way I see is due to the fact that I have only one lens (the wrong lens) and very little understanding of the correlations between all the technicalities of a camera. I just like, see pretty things? And then I like, take the picture?

Overall it was quite discouraging in a determination building kind of way. I realized I’m going to have to actually bother trying if I hope to continue taking photographs. Usually, when I realize that something requires further research or effort beyond what suits my mood at the time, I ball up that idea, toss it over my shoulder, and carry on with my day, pleased that I escaped boredom or hardship but the bummer here is that I really like taking pictures and somehow I walked out of there wanting to rent lots of lenses and create mood lighting and figure out how to change my f-stop. Compared to the other girls’ photos my pictures seemed dull and somehow I always manage to have something important turn burry in my shots. They are pretty pictures but they aren’t weddingy pictures. There’s a difference. All that said, I do think that I do not prefer wedding photography over my love for shooting landscapes and flowers and giant smiles.

About a week before the Photo Workshop, as I continued my frantic search for a purpose in life, I was nearly convinced I wanted to go to a trade school to learn plastering or welding. No laughing please. I saw it all as the perfect combination of hands on, outdoorsy, creative, thought-provoking work that still required some skill. I could be outside, dirty, and making something. “That’s got me written all over it!” I said with such an expression that Ari knew to agree with me. Get ready for how pathetic I am. A few days later, the temperature dropped below 50˚ and I completely turned on it. 

“But why?”, Mom asked in a desperate outrage, for I had gotten her more excited about my being a construction worker than I was but when I pointed out to her that I would almost always be working in unheated buildings or hot attics in the dead, stillness of summer, I would be sore, and cold, and surrounded by men, she sat back in her chair and sighed thoughtfully and I saw her toss that idea over her shoulder.

I then harped on about writing and my sensational children’s book idea that I feel I can’t write because I could never let my vocabulary stoop to that of the benighted youngsters of today. Actually I think it’s a great idea for a children’s book series but I really don’t care much for children and I know even less about what they can comprehend at what age. How old are you when you understand words like ‘lugubrious’ and ‘haughty’? Would they know what I meant if I described someone as ‘corn-fed’?

While I’m on an inconsiderate monologue about myself, I’ll tell you that I’ve also been painting and I did just about the coolest painting I’ve ever done except I can’t show it to you because I plagiarized it (that’s a big no-no) by taking a photo of it in an art gallery (also frowned upon). So, while it is my favorite thing, I can never really take it out of my home or I could be sued. For the record, I plagiarized it for the challenge of replicating it, not to sell or claim as my own. Also, as a side project, I've been thinking about taking up clay sculpting. I think all of this says that I have a lot of art stuck inside of me but I don’t know how to get it out and it’s kind of painful. For everyone involved actually.