"I'm an...ahem....artist"
During a conversation the other night, knowing my area of work, a man asked "Well what is it you want to do really?" and I paused and said, "Beyond making ends meet I want to be an artist." He bounced back immediately with "You and 750,000 other people." I thought to myself that this comment was quite possibly the most obnoxious conversation dead-end and also wondered how he decided on that number. His phone rang simultaneously and with that, our "conversation" was indeed over.
It's taken me a long time to be comfortable with that statement, "I want to be an artist," simply because it does conjure up images involving unwashed greasy hair, an ashtray piled with cigarette butts, big 80's dresses in Soho gallery openings, becoming an old lady with "funky" glasses, a pottery wheel in your living room and 80 cats, not to mention that it seems so inaccessible to many people that it becomes its own conversation stopper. But I am getting older and I think I need to be honest with myself about what I want to do with my life.
I know I will be happy if I am able to work in the visual arts—in visual communication. I am beginning to be more comfortable with the idea of not making much money, with the unknown, and with finding work in obscure areas. I certainly do not assume that I will ever be able to make an entire living on creating my own images. But I want to work really hard and see if I get there someday.
Perceptions and reactions are indeed funny when you come to terms with wanting "to be an artist." When I participated in a yogurt focus group a few weeks ago (i.e. finding work in obscure areas) they provided a table full of stickers and markers to make name tags. I chose a funny looking chicken sticker and wrote my name with a blue marker while some of the other ladies spent about 20 minutes perfecting the union of balloon stickers and magic marker polka-dots around their name. One of the brainstorming leaders approached me and said "That's not a very fancy name tag for an artist." I wanted to reply with "Right, because that's what I do for a living, I collect stickers and make name tags." But instead I just said I wanted to keep the focus on my chicken.
Some days it's easier to just say I am an "odd-jobist" for a living and avoid the images of a black wardrobe, performance art sequences in the nude, and selling small oil paintings on street corners. But this is exactly the reason I am so lucky, because I have the choice. I had the choice to take the risk of walking away from office life and health insurance after two college degrees, the choice to dress like a teenager when I go to work, and the choice to choose uncertainty and figure out how to be happy in it.
It's taken me a long time to be comfortable with that statement, "I want to be an artist," simply because it does conjure up images involving unwashed greasy hair, an ashtray piled with cigarette butts, big 80's dresses in Soho gallery openings, becoming an old lady with "funky" glasses, a pottery wheel in your living room and 80 cats, not to mention that it seems so inaccessible to many people that it becomes its own conversation stopper. But I am getting older and I think I need to be honest with myself about what I want to do with my life.
I know I will be happy if I am able to work in the visual arts—in visual communication. I am beginning to be more comfortable with the idea of not making much money, with the unknown, and with finding work in obscure areas. I certainly do not assume that I will ever be able to make an entire living on creating my own images. But I want to work really hard and see if I get there someday.
Perceptions and reactions are indeed funny when you come to terms with wanting "to be an artist." When I participated in a yogurt focus group a few weeks ago (i.e. finding work in obscure areas) they provided a table full of stickers and markers to make name tags. I chose a funny looking chicken sticker and wrote my name with a blue marker while some of the other ladies spent about 20 minutes perfecting the union of balloon stickers and magic marker polka-dots around their name. One of the brainstorming leaders approached me and said "That's not a very fancy name tag for an artist." I wanted to reply with "Right, because that's what I do for a living, I collect stickers and make name tags." But instead I just said I wanted to keep the focus on my chicken.
Some days it's easier to just say I am an "odd-jobist" for a living and avoid the images of a black wardrobe, performance art sequences in the nude, and selling small oil paintings on street corners. But this is exactly the reason I am so lucky, because I have the choice. I had the choice to take the risk of walking away from office life and health insurance after two college degrees, the choice to dress like a teenager when I go to work, and the choice to choose uncertainty and figure out how to be happy in it.
posted by Rebecca at 8:33 AM
1 Comments:
i fear that i am the "lady" who spent a good 20 minutes trying to perfect the balloon and polka dot union on my name tag. the memories are flooding back and it is all true. does this mean i can't be an artist?
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