Exactly... what does an artist look like?

I was standing in front of my local thrift store, basking in the warm glow of people admiring my work. I had brought in a few samples for the shop manager to see, so she would know what I did and what supplies I was looking for. Quickly a small crowd had gathered and my work was getting the "oooh and Ahh" treatment. We artists live for this moment. Then the comment came, unexpected, like sitting on a loud woopie cushion at a proper English tea.

"Wow! These are amazing! I had no idea you were so talented. You just don't LOOK like an artist!

Rapidly, I felt the glow leave me and be replaced by a prickle of irritation. I drew upon my 20+ years of customer service training to thank her for her kindness while hiding my annoyance.

As I packed away my work and left the store, I had to ask myself. What, exactly, does an artist really look like?

Is it like my art friend Valerie Bailey? A fiesty senior citizen, she wears her long white hair in a tidy braid. Her long flowing skirts are in a crazy quilt of satin and velvet, topped by a dark hat.

Is it like my art friend Pam Pitts? By far one of the best lampwork artists I have ever met, Pam's tiny frame is accented in baseball caps, blue jeans and hippie-chic tye-dye t-shirts. This suits her fave phrase of "Far out!"

Is it my Art Friend Debi Beard? Pretty and petite, she looks wonderful in soft and romantic vintage clothes. A class act.

Or, is it my favorite Rottengirl Keri Stanton? Her exotic features accentuated in a Gothic "Alice in Wonderland' dress.

My point is: exactly what the hell is an artist supposed to LOOK like?

I made a decision a while back that I no longer owed anyone a specific "look" to suit their views of what I should be. At fourty-freakin'-four I have earned that right. Granted, I never show up at a show in a t-shirt and sloppy shorts (I have seen it folks!) but neither do I feel I need to try to totter across a grassy yard, setting up a 10 by 10 canopy while waring 4 inch heels. My plus-size frame deserves comfort these days. As a former hairstylist, I have smelled enough chemicals to know that there is glory in salt-and-pepper hair and I wear my white streaks proudly. I enjoy wearing something offbeat to give the element of surprise, like showing up at a 4th of July show with an electric blue wig. But, I am just as home in a simple dress with my hair pulled back into a ponytail.

So, I have to ask. Does the dress make the artist? Or does the artist wear the dress?

Eat dessert first.

Another 2 sculptures find a new home!

When we are at the age when it is time to chose our career paths, the advice is always the same: Do something that you love.

Such a no-brainer, isn't it?

But some things in life are never that simple. I was raised in an environment where work automatically meant some kind of sacrifice. To be truly employed, you must have an undercurrent of dislike and toil. To paraphrase my hubby's beloved Pink Floyd... "You can't have any pudding until you eat your meat."

To me; art has always been dessert of the best kind. Something decadent, sweet and sticky. But all good girls know that you must eat those yucky green veggies before you get your dessert.

So, for years, art was the last thing on my extensive "to do" list. Dishes must be washed, floors swept, family obligations met... to clean my plate as it were... so I could get to that dessert of creativity. And as any mom of 3 boys will tell you, a mom's plate is never clean.

But slowly, I started sneaking in small tastes. How could something so wonderful as artistic expression be wrong? With my husband's encouragment I began to branch out. The seeds took root and began to grow. Before I knew it, my art was not a forbidden treat. Instead, it became water to my spirit. Something that if I denied it to my parched soul, I would wither.

Now, in the 44th year of my life, I understand! If we make that choice to follow our hearts instead of our sacrifices, we will grow. I never imagined the feeling of deep satisfaction as my humble sculptures become treasured possessions, or my delight when someone tells me of the compliments they get when wearing my pendants.

Life is short. Eat dessert first.

Art Therapy (or... "The continued adventures of Muscle Head and Monkey Boy")

Art can be powerful therapy. Taking our inspiration from emotions, events and those around us, we can artistically translate how we see those events. Unless you ask me (or I volunteer) people may not be aware that the cute sculpture they hold in their hands is actually an event that struck me, or someone who I felt the need to take down a notch in a very passive-aggressive manner.

Meet Muscle Head and Monkey Boy. Two not-so-nice (or smart) people who became hilarious sculptures.

I show at a San Diego tourist hotspot. Along with bona fide artists and vendors, a couple of modern Snake Oil Salesmen have joined us. Selling, of all things, special power-increasing hologram bracelets. According to them, they will improve balance, increase stamina, raise the dead and so forth. After watching these body-building, steriod-filled dunces for a few weeks a few things became very apparent:

1) P. T. Barnum was right. A sucker is born every minute. These men stage a huge show on unsuspecting tourists... having a customer stand on one foot and allowing them to pull on their shoulder. Of course, the poor schmuck will lose balance. Then the magical bracelet is placed on their opposite shoulder and the muscle-men pretend to pull with all their might. Ok. If these things really work, why aren't people allowed to have their companions attempt to test their balance? But, the poor schmoes shell out $35. (They don't hear the derisive laughter that I hear as they walk away!)

2) Big and dumb do go together. Both these guys are muscle bound body builders. In fact, the man nicknamed Monkey Boy has gained this moniker by us other vendors since his large chest muscles don't allow his arms to rest at his sides, giving him a simian posture. But, all that blood flow to the biceps has deprived their brains. One day I overheard them talking excitedly about a televised mixed martial arts fight, being held in Abu Dabai. Monkey Boy wanted to know where Abu Dabai was. Muscle Head boastfully informed him "Somewhere in India."

3) They are rude and obnoxious. If you stand in front of their booth, their speech is peppered with 'yes sir / no ma'am" (Muscle Head likes to pretend to the right crowd that he is a Marine on stand-by). But if anyone disagrees with them or their hard-sell technique or questions the validity of their claims, be prepared to be shouted down, belittled or intimidated. Being a professional with 25 years in customer service, this REALLY ires me.

After seeing the latest customer grab her group and rush off while being screamed at, I tried to calmly (key word there!) let Monkey Boy know that this was bad business and unacceptable to me. I got a heated "Oh yeah? Well this is MY business and I can do whatever I want."

Well, guess what? I am an artist and I can create whatever I want!

Name: Muscle Head
Created: May 5, 2010
Biography: More brawn than brains, he runs around with his magic bracelet, hooting a lot. Harbors a secret desire to dance Bollywood routines in Abu Dabai.
Contents: Cashmere sweaters, wool, recycled ribbon and button
Status: Ready for adoption


Name: Monkey Boy
Created: May 7, 2010
Biography: An ape with an attitude. Screeches and flings poo at random. But at night, when he thinks no one is watching, he plays with his banana while singing Celine Dion songs.
Contents: Cashmere sweaters, wool blanket, recycled ribbon and buttons
Status: Currently at Stampington Press ("Stuffed" magazine) for publication submission.