Is It an Earthquake or Merely My Spine Being Popped? – Jan/Feb 1997

Reality is not particularly user friendly, yet I still feel the need to do periodic reality checks on most aspects of my life. I’m not sure whether the need to always be “realistic” about everything is a nature or nurture issue, but whichever, it’s always there for me and not necessarily always a swell attribute. There is the added phenomena that, to some degree, reality is relative – to the person, situation, etc., but I feel those conditions only shade the base, or rotate it somewhat – some things can’t be changed just by our personal perspective.

Finding the fundamentals in an artist’s life can be confusing because issues oozing with passion, angst, creativity, etc. can get so tinted that to find the “true” shade of the matter is like deciding which one color to choose if one had to make a single colored rainbow. Thus spewn, here are a few “realisms” I have come to conclusions on lately.

No matter what anyone says, just because you make art does not automatically mean you should wear a beret. For one thing not everyone looks good in one. Head shape does not change upon entry into art school. For another, why the beret? Because it’s French? The Dutch had good artists, why not wooden shoes? Some people look just peachy in a beret. I even saw a CPA in one the other day and she looked terrific, but of course someone had to ask her if she were an artist. I told her all CPA’s should be required to wear calculator earrings – it would make classification easier. If I dressed like many people have described how a female artist should – beret; long flowing, patterned skirt; tunic top; long frizzy hair – because of my height, or lack there of, I would often be mistaken for an accent table. You know, one of those stools people buy, fling some material over and set a lamp on. I guess life’s not fair. Some people get artistic ability, the right hair, long thin bodies and look great in French head ware. Guys are supposed to be able to look jaunty in the hat, look great in black and a beard, and have enough neck so their turtleneck doesn’t bend. Once I went ahead and tried the “look” but reality said, “Only if you want a martini set on your head”.

Art isn’t a competitive sport. It’s been confusing for me at times, because some of my peers act differently, but even though there are a few similarities between bookies and critics; gallery Walk and Monday Night Football; juried shows and the Olympic trials – my sense of reality negates these. First, there are no Art Olympics. Granted, every other country thinks American art stinks, but there is no coverage of the winners and losers in art, only the “chosen”. There are no lasting endorsement deals based on how “cute” the artist is. In our country artists don’t become heroes because they fall and hurt themselves in the pursuit of their goals.

Secondly, there’s not much money in it. Sure, that in itself makes it competitive for many, but that’s marketing we’re talking about – not art. They who have the best marketing skills usually win in the art world; but not always, because somewhere, it’s still not about cash. (I know, tell that to the landlord.)

Which brings me to three. There’s always room for more creativity, more stories to be told, more beauty. Not to say that for the sports enthusiast there aren’t records to break and titles to win. But our goals really aren’t set in dollars and statistics. Our goal is constant growth, which shouldn’t be competitive. Each new idea sparks another. In jazz the goal is to have a new and fresh combination of notes every time you perform, and a lot of that depends on what your fellow musicians send you. Yes, in every aspect of human accomplishment there will always be the someone called the “best”, or the one that makes the most money; but in art, there are no set standards or bowl games to measure us by and confine our goals. Every time I feel I’m losing at something, I try to remember that art isn’t a race, and if someone makes me feel like that, I remind myself that it takes at least two for a true competition.

Reality – all people who stay awake past 10 PM are not evil or insane – all who leap out of bed at dawn are not virtuous. We left the farm years ago, however, “night people” are still suspect. Who wants to catch a damn worm anyway? No one tells early risers to stay outside or not sing or laugh until 9 AM (probably because there’s not much to laugh about that early). Biological clocks do exist and they vary for very important reasons. Someone has to get up and get rid of all that nasty dew, get the place warmed up and make coffee for all those who stayed up late doing wild reading.

Fact – not every one who does art wants me to hug them. Why then do I feel “hung up” or aloof when I don’t grab every artist I meet? Do you see dentists hugging and massaging each other because they have teeth picking in common? What if you don’t know or like a person? What is the reality check for this issue? In some cultures hugging and kissing everything that moves is the norm. That’s great for them, but in other parts of the world they don’t even shake hands – a tasteful bow says it all for awhile. But here in the land of art, if you aren’t smashing your face into everyone’s flannel shirt, some people look at you like, “Wow bet they dress in the closet”. Hugging is important and probably lacking in our culture, but I have witnessed some of the most heartfelt good-byes at our functions with both hugs and handshakes. I won’t stop grabbing some people; I just won’t assume having me attached to one’s breastplate is Nirvana for all.

Speaking of bodily contact, the type I don’t understand among artists is self proclaimed “chiropractic”. I know you all think Meredith’s got a hang up. Well, possibly. It stems from having brittle bones. Being grabbed and my spine unexpectedly aligned by an amateur doesn’t make my heart sing. I doubt if people with bad backs, fused vertebra, etc. get all tingly over this one either. Unsolicited bone popping is not a ritual of greeting or friendship in any country I know of.

I also have to remind myself that massages can send very different messages, depending on who’s massaging who and where. My sense of reality tells me that one should ask first even a fellow artist – not just start churning that flesh leaving the churnee to take it or ask you to stop. Screaming “DON’T TOUCH ME” in the buffet line somehow never goes over too well. On the other hand, if someone asks you to rub their neck, and their-ring-around-the collar appears to be moving, you can also say no. Believe me, you can’t beat a good grope, but only consensual groping.

Well, so much for this dip into reality as I see it, except for one last thing. I work with alabaster a lot. I think it’s wonderful stone, but after all these years, I still wonder why it’s considered a compliment to have alabaster skin.