Thoughts on painting in a window in Amsterdam, my general wellbeing, and turning the tables on my "audience".
Last night I had a dream about my mom, and I've been dreaming about her a lot lately. She died of cancer a little over two years ago - recurrent breast cancer that had traveled to her lungs (which she treated very poorly throughout her life), bones and liver, and likely her brain. She'd had several smaller strokes toward the end of her life as well, which left her occasionally incontinent, and I think that was the final straw for her. I think on some level that was when she decided not to get any kind of treatment for her second bout of cancer. I don't blame her, and would probably make the same choice myself. I don't think I could handle the level of vulnerability it would take to give responsibility of my bodily functions over to someone else permanently.
Such irony, then, that if I've mastered anything at all in my life, it's the ability to be comfortably vulnerable. Every artist (really, everyone) who finds out that I paint in front of strangers who just happen to be walking by my studio asks me what it's like. Doesn't it feel intrusive? Do I think it hinders what I paint? If people come in, do I mind? The answer to all of these questions is no, for the most part. And finally, how do people react as they're walking by? Well, I've noticed patterns. Older men ignore me. Younger men are delightful, for the most part, often giving me incredible encouragement. Older women are a mixed bag. Children are always curious, fun, and smile at me even if their parents don't stop.
Let's not skip over younger women, though. There is a type of younger woman that is reliably terrible in the way that only that type of younger woman can be. Of course, not all young women, many of whom are lovely to me, but enough so that even my husband has noticed. I'm talking about the terminally cool women who often travel in groups, whose personal style hits you before their faces do. Scowls, scoffing, and if they're in a group, the queen bee lets her lady drones know how cringe I am, and how awful my art is, sometimes loudly. And every single time, it makes me laugh. Not really at them, but at the system that will catch up to them eventually, too. It's easier to laugh than it is to cry or become furious with that system, although I indulge in that, too. I never take it personally.
I'm old enough to understand that they're terrified of what I represent, and what could become of them and everything they hold dearest right now, everything that keeps them grounded in worth. I know at their age, I would have been terrified, too, although I would have been too polite to be mean about it. I'm no longer beautiful and lithe, the line from the bottom of my throat to my chin is an acute angle, and my art is definitely and concretely uncool, at least by instagram standards. But the thing that probably irritates them the most is that I don't really care, and it stops me from nothing. I'm flaunting, openly, every single thing that should hurl me into a shame spiral (and has, when I was their age) - ugliness, imperfection, awkwardness, clumsiness, and a modicum of comfort, wealth and privilege - but I think we can also include in this list things forbidden to women my age, like power, talent, taste, experience and above all, vulnerability.
The other night, I went out with younger women, new friends, to an art opening, and I displayed exactly the kind of vulnerability that terrorizes me now. My knees locked walking down the metro stairs, I was slow, I was unsure what to talk about, I had no idea what anyone was saying because I'm struggling to learn Dutch, and to my horror, I kept forgetting every day words. Now, in my defence, I'd also cleaned the whole house and pulled off a small dinner party with entirely home-made food the day before, and I had too much to drink and went to bed too late. But I seem to remember being able to do all that with a baby on my hip at one point, and I would like that person back.
I will never have that person back, so I'll adapt with what I have. Estrogen cream, daily exercise, a kinder diet and less laziness. One day I will, absolutely, get a facelift. It would be lovely to see out of my ptosis ridden right eye, and I am aesthetically challenged and always have been. However, I've dealt with those things for most of my life, and they don't give me the ick as much as hobbling down stairs or being bedridden and reclusive for 20 or so more years. And maybe that's the lesson we all need to try to learn if we're lucky enough to be old, how to trust others to treat us with care and dignity, or teach them to. It's the trust thing that I will likely struggle with mostly, because I've lived long enough to know that a vast majority of people can't be trusted with intimacy.
Oh, and finally, my new friends have asked me to turn the tables on my lookie-loos and videotape them. I said yes, because it is hysterical. You've been warned.
Anyway dear reader and art looker, I hope you're well. If you're one of those cool, stylish, terrified young women, I hope you are especially well.
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