A portrait of an artist as a dumb girl

There's usually a moment halfway through a haircut when the middle aged woman getting a "classic bob" looks at me earnestly and says, "Well, you must be very artistic, you look very creative." I always nod and say, "Oh, uh, yeah, I write." While this is technically true, as you are currently reading my writing, I always feel guilty about implying that I'm some sort of inspired poet or novelist. Clearly, there is no rich symbolism in my blog posts, no deep, universal truths i reveal that resonate with my audience. I mostly started writing again because I no longer have a boyfriend who is contractually obligated to listen me and my real life friends have heard all my stories already. I feel guilty for engaging in this farce, as most people I know actually are creative and talented. I live with a video editor whose stop motion animation is wholly impressive and one of my best friends plays bass in a band so good that I'd listen to them even if I didn't habitually share bottles of wine with the members. Since I became a fan of alternative music and a participant in the admittedly weak counterculture my generation has created, I just figured I'd acquire some artistic skill with every purchase of skinny jeans I made. I quickly discovered that I not only can't draw, but I should really be banned from the activity because everything I draw ends up looking completely disturbing. Here is an attempt I made at an Easter bunny for the kids I nanny for, which ended up looking like the Donne Darko Bunny's cousin who isn't allowed within a thousand feet of an elementary school.

With that avenue clearly impossible, you'd think the next option would be music. There's a lot of shitty bands out there, I've heard them. I could ostensibly learn four chords and then assault people's eardrums at a basement show. I really already do that enough at karaoke, though. I'm not tone deaf or anything, but I am definitely vocally challenged and, out of courtesy, I wait until everyone is sufficiently hammered before I sing. In third grade we were supposed to learn a simple song on the recorder to perform in front of the school. I was already a procrastinator by then, so I put off practicing until the day before the performance. I'm sure my parents were happy about this, as the recorder is the most annoying instrument known to man. Even if played correctly, it's shrill and oddly obscures every tune into a series of whistles loud enough to make your ears bleed. A class full of eight year olds with those things is a punishment that should be considered by the people who run Guantanamo Bay. Anyways, when it became clear that I was just blowing into my cheap plastic instrument from the devil and moving my fingers indiscriminately, my teacher suggested father forcefully that I just pretend to play during our slot in the show. I remember agreeing with her that it was for the best. Plus, most instruments require that you move your hands independently of each other and do two things at once, and I can only rub my tummy and pat my head on a day when I've had enough sleep and caffeine. Beyond the technical skills I so clearly lack, I also lack the one important ingredient that elevates something into art: taste. I have terrible taste. I completely lack the ability to look at something and recognize whether it is "good" or "Not even worth talking about". The only exhibits I like in museums are the ancient art because that way I can just say, "Wow, that's old." instead of having to form an opinion on the effectiveness of the color palette used. I can look at something and tell if it's bad, sure, but more often than not I find myself waiting for someone more educated on the subject to share their opinion. What the fuck do I know about modern art sculptures? Not only do I lack taste, but I also lack the drive to learn more about stuff like that, because I am lazy and I'd rather watch BBC crime dramas. There's been a few times when even I've been shocked about how far off I was from the collective opinion of everyone else. I was at a show at age 18, passively watching the opening band. "Jesus," I though, "With a band name like that, they're not going anywhere. Is that guy wearing Birkenstocks? Fuck this, I'm going to have a cigarette." Imagine my surprise when two months later, Vampire Weekend's debut album took off and the songs I would have heard that night were everywhere. More recently, I heard a song on the radio and was like, hey, this is a catchy tune and turned it up. It was a song by the band FUN and I still haven't forgiven myself. Growing up in suburbia, I devoured as many books as possible, reading Syria Plath during my lunch break, Rainer Maria Rilke in the hallway and Nietzsche before bedtime. The white middle class culture is a culture of blandness and I wanted to distance myself as far as I could from it. As I've gotten older, I've realized that maybe my tastes aren't as high brow as I thought. I will never be able to look at modern art and be able to quantify what, exactly, sets it apart and elevates it into something extraordinary. I know so many people who function as cultural barometers, people who can listen to ten seconds of a song and say, this is good, the progressions are amazing, the drummer is great, reminds me of, et cetera. I can't watch a movie and think, the lighting really highlighted the mood, but the camera work was sub par. I constantly have the moment Cher has by the fountain when presented with something new. i'm clueless. If I was in charge of telling people what was good, everyone would be listening to Elton John and watching Iron Man. It's tough, accepting your own mediocrity. It's hard to look around and think, "I have no idea what you people are talking about, that looks like just a picture of an apple to me. Or a pear. It could be a pear." But it's too difficult to explain to people that, yes, I dress like I'm in a band and am clearly projecting an image of someone with tastes outside the mainstream, but really I'm an imposter of sorts. So I stick with the answer, "Yes, I'm a writer", a statement my sixteen year old self would be pleased with. Twenty four year old me, on the other hand, is just hoping they don't ask what I write, because then I'd have to show them this.