2004-03-16 @ 2:29 p.m.
why my nude art scares me

Instead I did the bus thing, where I had the pleasure of seeing a guy going through the DT's at the bus stop downtown...rolling around in his own vomit, with his eyeballs fluttering back into his skull. And an old Chinese man spitting precariously close to my feet. And a large angry African American man getting pushed out of a Rite Aide store door nearly knocking me down screaming, "Faggots! Goddamn faggots! You're all goddamn faggots!"

Golly, I love waiting downtown for the bus in the a.m. Yay!

And as I was heading downtown today I suddenly realized why all these people on the bus looked familiar. Its like a Jerry Springer Show on wheels.

First of all, most of them look like the people I see at the food stamp office. And they probably are, which is fine. They're on a bus, right?

Most of the guys look like they've probably fallen off at least 32 bar stools since last September and think buying a subscription to AMMO/Biker Babes magazine will boost their IQ by at least 23 points.

Almost all the young girls look the same. Fat. Straight hair tied back in a pony tail with the remains of a really bad perm. Also bus girls rarely have a single color hair. Its almost always blonde with dark roots. That's the law. Then there's the black kids with their 'do rags and oversized jeans. The old fat ladies who wear stretchy polyester pants that cling to every cholesteroled dimple. And the drivers who have this really dead zombie look in their eyes. The only time that changes is when you ask them a stupid question about bus transfers. And then it changes into pure hatred.

Me? I'm really just trying hard to hold onto what little dignity I have left in the clothes department. My clothes are wearing out. I try to dress up for my shrink appointment, so I had on my Eddie Bauer sweater and my long black wool coat today. Unfortunately my scarf had a hole in it and my slacks are completely worn out from so many launderings.

Think anyone will notice? Well, probably not on the bus. And probably not downtown, where people are rolling around on cigarette-strewn sidewalks in a drunken stupor.

But I want to look nice for "A", and also for the group that follows my appointment. There are some men folk there. Gotta look good for them, right?

The bus heading out to the yuppie area where his office is, is a little better in the people department. Don't think there are as many concealed weapons or illegal substances per capita.

It was good to see "A". He was in a good mood today. We talked briefly about art. He knows a bit about abstract art, which is what I like. He has a nice art book in his waiting room which has the work of such artists like Pollock, Kline, Rothko. It also had a really nice Hockney, whose work I really admire. Its very bright and cheerful.

A lot of times my sessions with "A" tend to be kind of surface-like, since we only have a 1/2 hour, but I did manage to bring up a subject which really just sprang forth unexpectedly.

It was about how I'm sort of dealing with my sexuality through my art. I mean I'm going someplace once a week, looking at a nude person for three hours and drawing 4-5 variations of them. Some of them somewhat realistic, some of them representational, some of them very sensual.

And I think some of my pent-up sexuality is spewing forth in my drawings, and its scaring me a little.

OK, a lot. A whole lot. As in one of the drawings I had at the art show recently....I was/am totally embarrassed by how graphic and sensual it was.

"A", of course, was like, oh, well bring it in. hell, no. I'm actually, just this side of mortified, that this image is going to be reproduced in a book this fall. I suddenly don't want anybody to see it. Now. Or ever.

When "A" asked why, I told him it was because I felt like it was me naked on that canvas.

I mean the girl doesn't look anything like me. She's blonde and slender and I'm brunette and curvy. But it was weird as usual.

So I think if I ever submit any more artwork anywhere, I will really look at it for a good long time and say, "Well, what would my aunt, a most excellent Catholic, do? Would she be able to hang this piece of art in an art gallery and still be able to get into heaven?"

Or if the heavens didn't open up, and Mel Gibson, wearing a crown of thorns, didn't strike me down dead on the midtown bus full of Jerry Springer audience members, would I ever be able to get up the courage to show my work again?

Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty