I have several pals who also work at libraries. We text. It helps.

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IT IS TOTALLY A COMPETITION.

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In art school a professor said to me one day, he said,  “Jaimie, if you’re an artist and you stop making art, you’re not an artist anymore.” And I know I didn’t say anything because I was shy and tried not to say much. So he went on to say, “You’re going to graduate, and you’re going to go out and get some kind of job, and you’re going to think that you’ll make art on your off days or in the evenings, but you won’t. You’ll be too tired. You’ll do other things with your time and you won’t make art anymore and you won’t be an artist.”

Unfortunately, I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? I was young. He was a “real artist.” I just figured he knew what’s what.

And it’s a shame because what he said came true. I’ve worked several jobs that allowed me to use my creative skills, but there’s been some years that I haven’t had that. And he was right, I was too tired. And I didn’t stand at my easel and make a single thing. I would think of his words every so often and feel tremendous guilt. I would hate myself and think what a waste of time art school was. I should have gone to business school or trade school to learn how to fix air conditioners.

The thing is, I knew I was an artist. But I had this lie in my head that said, “No, it’s been 32 months since you’ve painted anything. Face it, you’re done. Now go do something useful.” And I hated art. I hated it for a very long time.

If some old dude told me today the same idiotic thing my professor told me then about being an artist I’d probably very eloquently reply, “Well, that’s like, your opinion, man.” and on the inside I’d be thinking, “Who in hell made you Keeper of the Rules by Which We Use the Word Artist, ass?” But that’s the beauty of age, you learn what’s a good piece of business and what isn’t.

So on the off-chance that we had the same professor (or one like him) and he told you some stupid bullshit, I’d like to tell you something very important:

You are an artist. Yes, you.

I know, you haven’t painted in forever. You haven’t cracked open a sketch book in so long that you don’t even remember where it is. Your rubber cement is all dried up. You’ve commandeered your best scissors for unmentionable kitchen stuff now. The closest thing to an art pen you have is a janky Sharpie marker that you used to use for labeling burned CDs… and when was the last time you did that? (If you’re my pal Laura you probably burned a CD yesterday. But she’s the exception.)

You are an artist. Because you just are. Because you see the whole world at once and it comes into your brain through an artist’s filter and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s who you are. You’re an artist because you process everything through multiple senses at once and you may not even know you did that until just now, but you do, because you’re an artist. And maybe you haven’t made “fine art” in a long time. But I bet you’ve been creative as hell. I bet you bend the bread twist-ties into little stick men or dinosaurs. You know the perfect amount of lime to add to the awesome guacamole you make. I bet when you go outside at night in winter you know, without looking up, which constellations you’ll see, because you’ve looked at them before, and you love the quiet of a winter night, and you love the crazy insect hum of a summer night. You notice everything, because you’re an artist.

You might not be ready to make your art again yet, but you will make it again. It might be different this time, something new. It might be the same, a familiar tune.

And I want the first art you make to be for you. And I hope that you are brave enough to show somebody what you’ve made. And I’d be honored if you shared it with me.

 

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Someone was interviewed about her art work today. I’m certain I stammered the whole way through. But! I didn’t die.

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Once a month I have an art night at the library, and there’s usually a theme, and it’s usually something seasonal. Last February I did Olympic medals cos the Winter Olympics were going on. This year it’s hearts for Valentine’s Day.

Yeah, I don’t care about Valentine’s either, but I figure the kids can come and make a Valentine for their mom/dad/parental guardian. Good harmless fun.

So when I do these events I always make one of the projects beforehand as an example so the kids/adults can see what the deal is, and honestly, it’s one of my favorite parts of the job cos I get to make some art even if it is just a collage in the shape of a turkey or star or, in this case, a heart.  I’ll admit that this time I was a little bummed that I couldn’t come up with something better than a Valentine heart, but as I started working on it I realized that I’m a damn genius.

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One of my coworkers cut these pictures out because they were cute, and she taped them to the fridge in the break room.

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Well, I mean, those ARE totes adorbs, and they really DO look cute and all. But here, let me fix that for you.

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Guys, this post-it was tacked to our bulletin board at work. I’ve covered up the name and number to protect the *ahem* innocent.

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Masters degree, y’all.

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bestkeptboy

Is there anything better than a dishy biography? Probably not.

This gossipy bio tells about the life of Denham Fouts, a young man from Florida who was “kept” by several men, and palled around Europe with well-to-do society guys and even the future king of Greece as well as with some very famous authors like Christopher Isherwood and Gore Vidal. Most of the book is about Denny in the lives of the famous authors, Isherwood, Vidal, and Capote. I think it’s because the people who wrote about him the most were the authors who hung out with him. It was hard to believe that ALL the men were so infatuated with him for so long, because it seemed to me he was actually really boring and slept all day only to wake up at night to smoke opium and go out to dinner. I never really understood what was so appealing about him. But it was fascinating that the authors were so enamored of him that even though some of them (Capote) found him frustrating, they ALL wrote him into their books at least once.

Denny Fouts was one charming young man, but it seems that his life, although interesting as hell, was quite hollow.

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new server swap over test post blah blah technology

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reluctant

Whoa. What a memoir.

This is a story of someone living through a terrible childhood, growing up in some questionable relationships, and coming out of it, somehow, upbeat, positive, and healthy. I loved that the author owned her own mistakes. She doesn’t blame her childhood for her few bad choices. She has a pretty amazing story to tell.

I will say, however, I didn’t find her to be reluctant about being a psychic at all. As soon as she figures out that she’s psychic and not crazy she’s pretty much on board with it.

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