Girlwich

One of the weird - and sad - things about growing older, or growing "up," as it's often called, is the way that we are encouraged to compartmentalize, to categorize ourselves. The way that, in order to find a place into which we can fit our abilities and make a living, we narrow our conception of ourselves. It's not intentional, and we certainly don't start out by thinking that we are going to prune away bits of ourselves as we get older. We just think we're defining some of our abilities as work and some as hobbies. We think, "Well, I will just do that on the side."

We find ourselves making choices like: "Because my ability to crunch numbers is more likely than my love of banjo playing to allow me pay my bills, I will become an accountant and play banjo on the side." (Note: I cannot play banjo, nor am I particularly good at crunching numbers; this is just a hypothetical example.) That's the little deal we make, a contract between us and the world. Except that it is, generally speaking, a lie.

It's not such a surprise that the thing to which you devote the majority of your hours ends up swallowing the bulk of your mental and emotional energy. But that doesn't make it any less of a loss.

I was talking to a group of writers recently, and one of them said that she found people in NYC were less likely these days to pigeonhole one another. She said she didn't hear so many conversations among strangers beginning with, "So, what do you do?"

I'm not sure whether she's right about that, but it's a nice thought. Perhaps a better question than "What do you do?" would be "What do you like to do?" I do think it's the case that there are a lot of people in New York who are in various stages of trying to fashion their lives around something they love, and that may mean that there's a greater awareness of the many facets, interests, obligations, passions, and preoccupations that make up the daily life of an individual human.

Or maybe not. I must admit I've gotten used to introducing myself as a writer. And when people get all excited about that and ask what kind of writing I do, I invariably downplay it, and say "Oh, just business writing. Really boring stuff." I don't mention the fact that I do a lot of creative work "on the side," that I've written more than 80 poems since February, that I'm writing a novel, and that I have big dreams of someday being able to do (and perhaps teach) that kind of writing for a living.

I also don't mention the fact that I'm an artist, that I've always been an artist, that I could have maybe been a professional photographer, or that I have done some other art forms on a semi-professional basis. I don't mention this stuff because it's become peripheral in how I see myself and also because I have this idea that it sounds sort of pretentious. Doesn't everyone want to write a novel? Doesn't everyone have these delusions of grandeur?

It's not that I don't think my work is good. I do think it's good. I quite like it. But somehow between the "need" to specialize and choose a profession, and the aversion to tooting my own horn, I've managed to hide away some of the parts of me that are really quite important in who I am.

And recently it became apparent to me that they haven't, in fact, withered on the vine, as I'd been afraid they might. Blame it on the Nikon. On both cameras, actually - the Nikon for reflecting just exactly (well, nearly) what I want to show you, and the pocket camera for letting me never miss the opportunity of showing it.

Having these cameras has reminded me that I am an artist as well as a writer, and it's reassured me that despite my not talking about those abilities, and indeed largely laying them down by the side of the road for the last couple of decades, they haven't left me. In fact, it's as if, once watered, they've sprung to life like one of those pop-up sponges. Bigger than I expected them to be after all this time.

Maybe it's more like opening one of those slapstick cans of furry snakes, where the faux snake pops out of the can with much more force than you expect. Neglected abilities, when given a little love, bounce right back into your face with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old kid given a chance to shine. Holy mixed metaphors, Batman - but I suspect you know what I'm trying to get at.

Anyway, I'm not sure what the Big Point of this post is, other than that I am really, really happy to remember that I'm an artist, and that I'd like to give that part of myself room, and allow myself to claim that in public. So when I meet new people, or when I hang around with people I already know, I may try saying "I'm a writer and an artist." Though it may be that my friends already know my big secret and have just been waiting for me to acknowledge it, to own it.

And for my own part, I'm going to try to remember to ask people, "So, what do you like to do?"

PS. Today's cameras: Nikon, for pics 1, 2, and 4. Pocketcam for pic 3.
PPS. Knitting content coming soon. Promise.