My Brain Reveals Itself

Yesterday I went to see if any of my other photos had sold at the Lake Oswego Festival of the Arts and none had. Funny how you can be so excited about something one day – “YIPPEE! TWO OF MY PHOTOGRAPHS HAVE SOLD!!!! – to “yippee, two of my photographs have sold.”

By using those capital letters I hope you can hear the excitement in my voice and see the joy on my face, while the small words show that I’m being sarcastic, as if to say, “Big freaking deal, two have sold, but what about the other seven?”

My expectations the first day were that none of them might sale, and how awful that would be. But at the end of the first day, I was so excited that I’d made two sales because it validated me as a photographer and artist. I got the stamp of approval from the world.

By the end of the second day, however, the world had said to me, “You got lucky with those two, but we’re wise to you now and you won’t get away with fooling us anymore that you’ve got talent.”

Not that the world is actually saying this (or maybe they are. If you hear anything, let me know), but the little whining, insecure voice in my head is saying, “Why did you ever think you could be a photographer? How humiliating to have your stuff hanging in a festival with real artwork for the whole entire world to see and not have any little orange dots on your card except for a measly two.”

This voice hounds me day in and day out. It’s a wonder I can ever get anything done, because it questions everything I do.

“Why are you still using that frayed toothbrush? It’s embarrassing.”

“It works fine, and who’s going to see it?”

“I see it. It might work fine, but it’s an eyesore and you know you’re supposed to replace those things every few months.”

“I just got it about six weeks ago. Can I help it if the toothbrush companies make them so they get frayed really quick?”

“Oh, so now you’re going to blame it on the toothbrush companies?”

This conversation banters back and forth until I leave the bathroom, at which time the voice starts in about something else, like: “Why don’t you clean out this closet?”

The reason I actually accomplish anything is that another voice is in my head tells me how great I am. This one says, “Why are you only entering nine of your photographs? How can you pick just nine when they are all so beautiful?”

These guys are in there arguing like an umpire and a baseball coach, in each other’s faces, spit flying, while I’m trying to make a cup of tea:

“If you’d clean out this closet, you could find something to wear.”

“There’s plenty to wear, in fact, there are so many cute things in here it’s impossible to choose between them.”

“Cute? Cute? Did you say cute? Look at this shirt? When’s the last time anyone wore this thing? It’s got a stain on the front.”

“That stain is microscopic. Nobody except Superman could see that stain.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So how come you never wear it?”

By then I’m dressed and buttering toast”

“Are you going to put that much butter on your toast? I thought you were trying to lose weight?”

I don’t know if other people have to contend with this, but to me it’s like having two kids in the back seat bickering:

“She hit me!”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“He hit me first.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“That’s because she was looking at me.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

I can ignore them and go about my business, or pull over and threaten them within an inch of their lives to get them to stop, or reach back there are start flailing around trying to make enough contact to distract them so they stop. Even if any of these things work, I know it’s going to start back up again a few more miles down the road.

Georgia O’Keeffe, the artist who does those paintings of one part of a flower that is magnified and sometimes look like a vagina, once said something similar to this line: “I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” Actually, this was her exact line, because I asked Google and found that the line I typed (and had to delete) was nothing like this one. I also found I’d spelled her name with only one “f” (which I changed). And I found this interesting quote by her: “I hate flowers - I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move.” This makes her sound kindof crotchety, which seems like the perfect word except I’m not sure how to spell it and I’m not going to take the time to look it up. (Note: spell check fixed it.)

The point is that she must have had those two voices in her head all the time, too, and I know exactly what she means when she says she terrified every moment. I’m just like her, except not rich and famous. I’m afraid of my own shadow, which is the reason I live in Oregon where the sun rarely shines (that’s a joke, ha ha – get it? I don’t see my shadow to be afraid of it so much here in Oregon because….oh forget it.)

If you are still with me on this long, rambling journey through the workings of my inner brain, you are probably wondering how we got so far away from the topic about my photographs. You and me both. But I will bring this full circle by saying that I promised in my last blog to make my next one twice as long, and I think I’ve succeeded, so I can end this now. Aren’t I clever?

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“Are not.”

“Am too.”