The Truth Is My Middle Name
Sharing the life of an artist.
Recently, I've been spending my days as what I can only describe as a "hipster housewife."
I'm not married, and the sprawling apartment complex in which I currently reside doesn't exactly scream "hipster," but here I am, blogging and making moon-phase garlands out of marbled paper (that I marbled myself, thank you very much), to hang over the bed (read: mattress on the floor) that I share with my beloved.
Ever since I quit my job and moved into this apartment (it's temporary), there's been a lot of clicking and scrolling, buying dresses, sending them back, finding better things at the Salvation Army, shrinking them (in the WASHER!), attempting to stretch them out by soaking them in hair conditioner, going to the (ugh) supermarket (UGGHHH) and noticing all of the overdressed women there in the middle of the day, looking down, realizing I'm overdressed, wanting to scream "IT'S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!!," looking for jobs online, so much Etsy, "straightening up," and - it's taking me a lot of courage to say this - watching Netflix.
But only at night. And only two shows.
Because I am an artist! I read the Artist's Way and it changed my life! I'm a non-conformist. It's not an accident that I'm not on Facebook or any of that silliness. I don't have time for that! I need to cook! I have garlands to make!
So, I find myself making things, and I find myself blogging. But do I blog about what I make? No. I'm not about to tell you how I made that garland, or that amazing matcha & maple syrup iced latte. Those are the lies that we tell the people on the internet. Those are for the hipster housewives.
I didn't have a wedding, much less a DIY wedding. I wasn't featured on a wedding website and I don't have prominent cheekbones. And I'm Jewish.
I do know what it means to be an artist, but I also know how it feels to sit at a desk and totally not be an artist. And I know now that staring at a computer non-artisting can feel exactly the same at home or at "work."
I just got off the phone with my good friend Kerry, who told me that she can't wait to go to work, eat Twizzlers, and maybe drink some wine at her desk. Is that an act of rebellion, conformity, or art? Do we have to choose?
If I make fancy matcha lattes and teach the internet how to make them, too, is that art? Because I feel like more of an artist when I heat up leftover spaghetti and meatballs, add some canned tuna (and a few secret ingredients), and relish in the savory kind-of-grossness that is my dinner. That feels like the Artist's Way. That, friends, is truth.