Eleven

I used to consider myself an artist. I painted, all the time, everything. I set up at street fairs, art shows, flea markets, and later on started selling on eBay, on Etsy, won awards on EBSQ. It was my great aspiration- or my grand illusion- that I could paint for a living. That I could actually make money at it, in order to buy more supplies, in order to keep painting. Which used to make me happy. I haven't painted since last year, and even what I was doing back then I'm not sure if I would call painting, or even art. I've been painting forever it seems, and selling my work for 25 years, but lately my head is void of any ideas and my heart is void of creative desire. And frankly, I'm void of any talent, and I know it. I don't kid myself, I am an amateur even on my best day, whether I'm painting with acrylics or making pottery or sewing quilt pieces together or creating handmade greeting cards. I am mediocre at many things, but talented at none. I've never found my place in the art world, I've tried it all from woodworking to sculpting to stamping, you name it I've done it. They all turn out to be phases, just like everything else I go through in life. I get super excited, buy all the instructional books, invest in the tools of the craft, and sometimes even take classes. I give it a few months, sometimes a year, then the interest fizzles. Just as I do with every undertaking. I have no excuses, I'm home all day long with no obligations other than having dinner ready when A comes home from work late in the evening. I am home alone for at least twelve hours a day, my hours are free to be selfish with anything I want. A even created a fantastic studio for me here at the new house, he made certain that I would be able to paint, in comfort and style- as he does for me in all things in life. I have 500 square feet, a bathroom, air and heat, an enormous sunny window facing the woods behind the house, a work table, shelves to display my collections and a bookcase for all my art books and cabinets to organize my supplies, lamps and curtains and rugs and TV and radio. Even a cushioned rocking chair by the window, on days where I just need to relax in my own space. A thought of everything for me. The studio, it's all mine, and A gladly gave me the private space with love in his heart. A spared no expense for my studio, because I said I'd always wanted one, because I said that's what I needed to get the creative juices flowing again, because I said that would make me happy. His next plans are to create yet another private room for me down in the basement, to buy me a kiln so I can take up pottery again, something that I constantly complain that I miss since I gave it up last year. But I know it won't matter, as the studio doesn't matter. I'm not creating, I'm not painting, I'm not happy. Even with all of that. No wonder A is sometimes at his wit's end with me. He's given me everything a woman could ever want, and still I am unhappy, still I rage against the black hole growing inside of me, where all of the joy and sunshine seem to fall into. He gives me everything and asks nothing of me in return, other than to please start feeling better again and to please be happy. He's happy, with his work and our new house and with me, and he doesn't understand why I'm not playing ball on the same field as he is. Depression runs in his family, not mine- his sister, his brother, his mother. But he's the balanced, joyful, positive one. I'm the dark, mean, unsatisfied one. He doesn't understand it, and frankly neither do I. Sometimes I wonder where it all comes from, the ugliness inside of me. I used to paint beautiful landscapes, of the mountains, of the tropical beaches. How can I paint such sunny, bright, colorful pieces when inside I feel brown, black, lumpy? I don't know. I tell myself if I would just sit down, pick up a brush, put a canvas in front of me- it would all come back to me again. I would feel productive, proud, excited. And in turn, I might feel happy? I can't say for sure. I don't know what it will take for me to pick my head up and look at the sky again. Right now I can't even look at myself in the mirror without feeling shame, pity, anger at the reflection of this fat, lazy, pathetic middle-aged woman looking back at me. Who the hell is she? Is that really me? Is this really what my life is going to be like from here on out, or do I have the power to change it?