I’ll be an artist this Saturday!
It’s in the schedule: 11-4 tomorrow (Saturday) I’ll be at the Stonestown YMCA annual Creative Arts Faire (I wish they’d leave the “e” off – it’s a little too cutesy for me – but not my decision).
No, my book is not published, but I’ll be selling lovely “Venus on Mars” inspired postcard collages, showing my video trailer and giving my first reading from the new novel.
Dedicated time to be an artist does not come easily. I had it last fall when I was on sabbatical, but now I’m back to bouncing between teaching and writing. Sometimes it’s hard to change gears, hats or whatever designates each and differentiates between them.
I’ve recently become aware that a lot of people about my age who opted long ago to be unfettered, full-time artists are in a near-panic mode now that they’re facing retirement, because they don’t know how to make the rest of their lives work financially. I’ve learned not to bring up my pension plan, retirement income I can actually live on – thanks to my many years in the CSU system.
If I’d allowed myself to become a fulltime artist, I’d surely have more to show for myself – novels, paintings, movies – but growing up as I did in the late sixties/early seventies, I resolved early on not to ever depend on anyone besides myself for a livelihood. Moreover, I come from proud working-class stock; not having a full-time job would have been shameful. When I got my first university teaching job, my dad said “that’s wonderful – now you don’t have to keep making those films” (as if I’d just been amusing myself until a real job came along).
Artists who work at full-time jobs have sometimes been considered less worthy of the title than those who go at it full-force, future consequences be damned. Sunday painters are known as mere dilettantes. Starving artists are more romantic than university professors. Coming down with consumption is more tragic but also more intriguing than the practice of preventative medicine made possible by workplace health benefits.
Too often people remember only half of Virgina Woolf’s famous quote about what a woman needs – not only a room of her own, she wrote, but also a way to earn money. She made her own way in the world, writing for money as well as for pleasure.
My character Wrexie/Lulu also took care of herself, earned a good living, and had investments, but she lost everything in the 1929 stock market crash. She ended up destitute, demented, in one public nursing home after another until relatives took her in.
Whatever we sew in our younger years – wild oats or carefully cultivated crops – there’s no guarantee whether the seeds will reach fruition later on, whether we’ll have something nutritious to munch on as we age.
I sometimes regret that I waited so long to start writing again. I’m not even sure anyone cares what a 60-year-old woman has to say. But when I retire a few years hence, I can spend all my time as an artist – not just the five hours tomorrow – and that seems “faire” enough to me.