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.