Turns Out I'm Petty

A little revenge is okay.

Dear reader,

Spring presents herself. Daylight streams through the kitchen windows well past suppertime; all of us now putter around the homestead naked and barefoot, instead of just the brave few. On Saturday night, T. and I folded up the king sized wool blanket that has held us through two winters together, stashed it away in my funny attic, and slept with the bedroom door open.

I’ve been tentative to embrace the season. If I blossom too early, a late season frost could scorch my new growth, like our wisteria vine that lost all of its buds to a random hard frost a couple of weeks ago, leaving it withered and woefully stunted.

ROCK SHOP’s official opening date is May 22nd. The last letter I wrote you served as an accountability buddy for this project’s nine month gestation. I’ve bought myself a little more time so that T. can build two additional cabinets — as it turns out three isn’t enough.

Meanwhile, I’ve been working on a commercial illustration project that’s effectively claimed the remainder of my bandwidth. Jobs like this rarely come my way, the ones that pay well enough to justify a short sprint of mania, and it’s even more rare that I say yes when they do. But hey, it isn’t like cabinets grow on trees around here.

I’ve never enjoyed commissions. As hard as I try, illustrating something that lives in someone else’s head feels like a futile use of my energy. People should just try to draw things themselves. It might take a few rounds to get it right, if one isn’t practiced, but I’m convinced the end result will always be closer to their vision than anything I could translate.

I realize that it’s easy for me, the artist, to tell other people to just make art. But consider for a moment that we are all artists, and that the only thing setting us apart is how well we dance with the resistance that surfaces when making something new.

Privileges aside, I really believe that with enough time, patience, and a pencil and paper, most people can draw a visually satisfying still-life. My being an artist is not a question of being able to make artwork. It is a question of my willingness to make something imperfect, or ugly, and how much resilience I have to face that reality repeatedly.

How do I motivate myself to keep doing things in front of people? Where does my resilience come from? I hear the doubtful, comparative voice in my mind just like anybody else. I am also headstrong and fancy myself clever, which means that I excel at getting in my own way. Common motivational hacks don’t work for me; I outsmart them. This is why the resilience I channel is often unconventional.

There are days that compel me to walk outside of my studio, turn my face to the sky, and scream with delight “I love my life! Thank you Universe!” at the top of my lungs. But some days, when I’m in a crunch, I walk outside and hold my hands up to the sky, squint at the sun, and with a middle finger sticking out of each fist I gesture:— Yeah, yeah… and fuck you, too. Sometimes the only thing to do is to let the universe know I’m paying attention.

I’m a forgiving person. In conflicts with others, I’m often the first one to show my belly, not because I’m highly evolved or a pushover, but because I don’t like the way it feels to hold a grudge. Resentment soaks in like poison. I’ve noticed it has no problem being the loudest guest, while often overstaying its welcome.

I hate to be petty. How distracted and draining it is when I stew on a perceived wrong during an otherwise perfect Saturday, like unpacking friendship drama come and gone instead of reading Sheila Heti’s new book on the daybed, under the wind-chimes and withered wisteria. But being petty is an inevitable part of being human, an inevitable part of playing with others.

The older I get, the more I accept my pettiness. But because I’m not a jerk, I don’t take my pettiness out on people directly. Instead, when I need to feel it, I allow it into my practice because I’ve found that sometimes, feeling wronged by something or someone is actually highly motivating.

I’ve mentioned it before, how little my father thinks of me and how estranged we are because of it. This hurts, of course, and I’ll probably long for fatherly support throughout my whole life. But this pain is a direct link to my power, too. I love having a shitty dad to be mad at. I love having someone to stick it to. I love having someone to prove wrong.

Nothing will ever satisfy his absence. I can’t do anything to gain my father’s approval, but every ounce of recognition or praise I get elsewhere, and every job offer or paycheck I receive just for doing the work of being me, is my revenge fantasy come true. Every day that I push myself to be more than his idea of me is an innocuous but nonetheless satisfying retaliation against his beliefs.

Not to suggest I sit around stewing in my vengeance. We don’t speak anymore, and I don’t think of him often, but he’s there for me when I need him. When I’m scared of trying something, or when I question if I have what it takes, I remind myself of his cruelty and the satisfaction I refuse to give it. His lack of encouragement has proven itself to be an antidote to stagnancy. 

If I believe I am too small to share my world, publish a letter, or apply for something competitive, my father wins. At least it feels that way. And frankly, that’s just not an option for my petty, spiteful ass.

Love,

Anna

1. ROCK SHOP opens Friday May 24th. Come visit on Fridays & Saturdays from 12-4. 735 Napa Avenue in Morro Bay, California. Bring treats.

2. Two new stickers available at www.lordcowboy.com:

3. Alphabetical Diaries by Sheila Heti.

4. This print is now available in black:

5. My new favorite music YouTube channel that plays some incredible deep cuts. Listen to sets at Sound by the Sea.