Today’s images are brought to you by my sudden bout of pessimism and my fascination with things that are being torn down and/or built.
I’ve been reading The Guerrilla Girls Bedside Companion to Art History. I read about how women artists would become artist models to make ends meet, while male artists got the privilege of being an artist and were seemingly worry free about money. I became an artist model to make ends meet. So now I guess I’m just a female artist stereotype. Women artists would lead a double life as mother, wife, have a job, and maybe do art at some point… like when their children had grown and/or they retired. Male artists were typically just artists, maybe they taught at a big university. I feel like I’m constantly juggling everything and maybe, at some point, I get to create. I read about how women artists were not taken as seriously as their male counterparts. I’m never quite sure anyone takes me seriously, especially my art. Most times it’s because I’m joking around or being sarcastic… or maybe it is because I was born with a vagina.
I’ve spent eleven years being an artist, struggling, juggling, stumbling, trying to have an art career — a “career” pays your bills in an idealistic world. And I sadly think, I will be a footnote in art history, just like those female artists, who are labeled “female artists” not just “artist” in the Guerrilla Girls book. When I die, someone might come across my work and see something special, or it might be thrown in Salvation Army, or the Johnston Landfill. It will all be for nothing. It’s a humbling thought.