I think I’m an artist.
I wanted every part of yesterday to make me feel like I was that girl.
And I think I accomplished that.
Yesterday I went to Blick to get my photos printed for an art show I’m in.
Yesterday I went to Blick to get my photos printed for an art show I’m in.
I never realized how much I wanted to say that, to DO, that until now.
In college, the art department seemed like some sort of siren off in the distance. The smells of the art supplies wafted down the hall. The studio/work area always seemed a bit messy, and the students were gathered around these huge tables covered in canvas or something.
On the floor near their ironic socks and boots, tote bags laid crumpled, all in various stages of wear.
Was this an official dress code?
I visited this workshop for one reason or another during undergrad but was never truly a part of the program.
I was afraid.
I was so focused on my survival in college. My grades were abysmal and I was working full time with an internship. I needed to make it after I graduated, have a job waiting for me, and all that. I told myself over and over that I would come back to art eventually. That the stirrings I felt in my soul when I fit in art classes wherever I could on the way to my BA in journalism would always be there.
Pulling up to Blick, the entire store was wrapped in bubble wrap.
“OPEN DURING CONSTRUCTION”
I walked in and felt drunk with power. No pens and journals this time. No doodads from the impulse aisle, Not this time.
“Can I have some help at the photo printing desk?”
Unfortunately, I have to go back this morning because the link to a dropbox to upload my files never arrived. Another $22 Lyft to Lincoln Park.
Maybe it’s just getting older, but I have no qualms about saying I have no idea what I’m doing. I said as much as I pulled the frame out of my tote bag (!) and showed it to the person working.
“This size, please.”
I checked out and the cashier let me know I would have to sign up for a card.
“You need one if you’re working with the design center.”
I pulled my tote bag open for my wallet and felt…peaceful.
Something so ordinary for many of my friends, a simple errand, felt like magic to me. I may be doing this all for the first time, but it’s no less earth-shattering.
Reader, I think I’m an artist.
Outside was warm. I wore clogs and a linen jumpsuit. A gigantic flannel for a jacket. I was going to bike home so that everyone could appreciate my, that girl-ness.
I wandered my neighborhood until I found a patio with food I could afford. I read with one hand and ate with another, letting the sun set across my shoulders.
Walking home, I noticed someone on the bus stop eating out of a jar. It looked like peanut butter. That alone, somehow, felt normal enough. Getting closer I realized that there was a second jar.
Reader, it was jam.
I didn’t want him to see me, but from a quick glance, he seemed to be combining the two for a bite.
I kept clip-clopping on home, leftovers held in a cardboard box.
And it was one of the most recent moments that I have felt very much alive.
