When you’re an artist everyone looks at you funny. (Sorry Mom)

When you’re an artist everyone looks at you funny.

At least, that’s what I’ve felt for pretty much my entire life. 

In Kindergarten I did the paint station every single day. I would run home to my mom and give her 2-3 new paintings after school. During this period everyone was really worried about me (teachers, other parents) because all of my people had giraffe necks and everyone wore high heels - even the men. This was brought up multiple time in parent teacher interviews even though I was advanced for my age. 

Honestly, nothing much has changed since then. I assume that I’m the one on the street that everyone talks about. I’m moving in, I’m moving out. I used to be very easily noticeable with purple and then green hair and I’m the only person on the street that’s heavily tattooed. I get entirely too much mail - Purolator is at my house at least twice a week and people in small towns are oddly weirded out by this. 

I’m pretty sure that my mom would tell you that I create a scene wherever we go simply by being me. Take yesterday for example:

I went to a fabric store that was closing to get some things for a photo idea I had. As I was leaving my mom was getting home so I recruited her to come with me. I let her know that there would probably be tons of sales since the store was closing for good and talked her into the mini road trip. (My mom is a quilter so I thought she’d be genuinely interested in the trip.)

We got to the store and we started out roaming around together until it became very apparent that we weren’t at all looking for the same things. So we went our separate ways. 

My mom played it safe in the quilting section where they have ready made bundles based on colour palettes. She chose a neutral beige/brown bundle that she added a couple solid colours to and then she was ready to go. 

I on the other hand looked at literally everything. Bright, shiny…..oh wait, is that NEON? I went from one side of the store to the other. I was particularly looking for things that you could see through. I spent some time in lace but got annoyed that they only had white, off white and ivory. I was in tulle for a bit, and ended up finding a weird back room where they had all the “ends of rolls” or the weird ass fashion material that no one wanted. Turns out - I wanted it all.

I went to the cutting table once and told the employee what I needed but that I was going back for more. As I was still looking my mom got in line with the same employee as she cut my fabric. As she was making my pile an older lady walked by, looked straight at my mom and exclaimed “WOW THAT’S GONNA BE ONE HOOCHIE MAMA DRESS WHEN YOU’RE DONE.” To which, my mom just smiled and turned bright red as all the other women in the store cranked their necks to look her way. I yelled out from the corner “Sorry mom!”

In a nutshell that’s what it’s like to be my mom.

I still bother her to make Rice Krispie squares even though I’m 35 and totally know how to make them myself. I bug her to sew giant ponchos of coral silk that Godzilla could fit in. She's recruited to be the “button pusher” any time I decide that I want to climb something or hold a weird pose and can't push the remote.  I steal all her stuff pretty much all the time - her fabric pencils, her slippers, her bobby pins. (She steals my dry shampoo, ALL my clothes and eats my junk food.)

And she also has to answer all the neighbours questions after I’m seen running around her yard with my camera. Standing in the middle of her garden, probably stepping on her flowers while wearing an evening gown in the middle of the day or, like today when I probably looked naked (I was wearing nude underwear) and walking around with a giant cloud of tulle over my head. 

What can I say, when you’re an artist living loudly everyone tends to look at you funny. 

“Sorry Mom!”