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2004-10-08 @ 12:35 a.m.
witty pity. arty party. whee! I need some drugs.

Something had happened in my drawing class which I had failed to report yesterday. My fledgling friend, J, who was my original potential art class husband #1 who turned out to be married, was set up on an easel, drawing behind me. I was sitting in a different location than usual, because there were some new people in the class who didn’t realize they were sitting in the official wittykitty art class location. Fortunately I’m not the type of person who gets bent out of shape about those things, unless its at “A”s group. I must sit next to “A”. Right “A”? :-)

So after the 20 minute pose I was just finishing up a drawing of un-epic proportions. I usually slap my sketchbook closed immediately so as not to attract peering eyeballs. But “J” came up behind me, and in his slow New Orleans drawl, said, “Wit-tee, that is a very nice drawing. Its so filled with emotion and feeling.”

And without turning towards him, I practically snapped, “Well, it doesn’t look anything like her. Oh well.” I immediately felt bad. I think I managed to whisper “thank you” under my breathe, but then I never looked at him again, until when I left and said goodbye. I felt like such an unappreciative bitch though. He’s such a nice person and I don’t think he’s an idle flatterer. I don’t know what made me do that. I was so mad at myself for doing that.

And then my reign of the un-ego continued today. I mean I did well in “A”s group this morning. I made some people laugh with my ad-libbed beat poetry about falling leaves. I think it went something like this:

”The leaves are falling - - - theleaves....are(cough)falling.”

“A”, who has always had dreams of being a poetry teacher if it paid better, immediately proclaimed it a masterpiece (or at least that’s what my writer’s ego heard) and then the shrink part of him said it had sexual connotations to it. heh. heh. This of course, was the same man, who when I said that “Pee Wee’s Playhouse” was my favorite TV show, said that was sexual too. Everything is sexual to “A”. I keep hoping that ideology will rub off on me. Sex is good. Sex is fun. The leaves are falling. Pee Wee Herman makes me wet. Sex. Sex. Sex. See, anytime you put the word sex in a sentence, I get all wiggy. I also think all the blood has drained from my vulva and has redistributed itself to the part of my brain that controls anxiety. Because that part of my brain works fine. It actually works too well. And my vulva doesn’t work at all.

Now where was I? Pee Herman. Vulva. Oh! Anyways, I had a wicked bad day today. “A”s group at 9 a.m. was the apex, and then it went steadily downhill after that. I went to the local yuppie store for groceries, which was ok, since they stock chocolate non-pereils, which are now part of my DNA, because I eat so many of them. But then about an hour after I got home, I was laying on the couch for a power nap and the store called me. I had left my checkbook at the store.

Yuppie store: Sooooo, do you want to come get your checkbook?

Me: Ummm. Hmmm. Let me think. Its a small perforated imprinted paper thingie capable of draining my entire teeny tiny bank account. Fuck yes!

So I went back across town. Damn. I’m trying to save on gas, but this was important. I then returned my faulty videotape to the library. The one that had the Olsen twins in a women’s artist video box. Well, THEY weren’t actually in the box, although they probably could have fit. The librarian was very decent about it and I didn’t get blamed for anything. I also checked my e-mail and found out that my afternoon Survivor Group was canceled at 4 p.m. Perfect. Why?

Because today was the opening of my second art show. The one at the cool and trendy art gallery in town. The evening before, a woman from the place giving the show, had come up to my drawing class and asked me to write a blurb for the show. I didn’t exactly know what she meant. A blurb about what? Me? Or my work? She didn’t know either, so I just wrote a somewhat lengthy thing about being bipolar and about how therapeutic art was for me. And by the way, I’m really poor so if you BUY my painting, I’ll sleep with you.

(killing two birds with one stone, ya see. Having sex and making money. Oh wait, that’s prostitution. Never mind).

So I got over to the cool gallery around 4 p.m. Originally I was going to go home and change into some trendy art gallery clothes, not that I have any. My clothes are more like pseudo-Salvation Army-shabby chic-starving artist clothes. But I was so tired and so depressed (Married Guy stuff), that I just motored on over in my tight jeans with pastel dust from last night, a black top and Reebox sneakers from my walk.

When I got to the gallery, it was in a semi-darkened state. None of the overhead light were on, but rather natural light was filtering in from all the big windows around the gallery. I was immediately accosted by the uber-cheerful receptionist who was readying the place for the artist’s reception. It was then that I realized I was too a half hour. Damn! No free food.

She immediately wanted to know if I was part of the show and what my picture was. I described that I had two pieces (although I wasn’t sure if TWO had made it. It had never been made clear to me whether one or two pieces would be accepted, so I had submitted two). Only one picture made it. My abstract painting.

So the uber-cheerful girl showed me where my painting was hanging and then stood by me chirping appreciatively, saying how much she liked how I did the overstrokes and paint drizzling. Huh? Oh yeah, the overstrokes and paint drizzling. I guess I don’t quite have the lingo down. I had painted it one day when I was manic, and I was just basically slopping paint on a canvas. So yay me. Witty the Paint Drizzler. Who knew?

And then, I guess the manager of the place came over and also complemented my work, and the more they complemented me as I stood there, the more totally inadequate I felt.

See how that works? Me either. “A”?

They finally walked away, and I felt like crying. Here was my painting in the coolest art gallery in town and I absolutely hated it. It seemed so ugly and inadequate. And many of the original amateurish submissions I had seen at the place sponsoring the show weren’t there. Instead they were replaced with some really nice artwork. And here I had been all cocky about my painting being so high class and incredible. Shit.

So I don’t know if I should be happy that perhaps my painting was selected over those other pieces that were amateurish. Or whether the woman showing me those had just showed me things that were from the center that weren’t meant for the show. I’m not really sure. But I quickly slipped out of the door before the reception started, and cried all the way home in my car.

I’m really not sure if this has to do with the art show or how totally lost I feel without Married Guy. Unfortunately since I’m pretty low in the self esteem department, I have always drawn my self-worth from other people. I know is a dangerous thing to do, especially when they disappear and you are left hanging. And I practically set myself up for disappointment driving over there today, because I was feeling very, very lonely and I really, really wanted someone to come with me.

My last art show on September 25th was a perfect example. I had told my mother about that show before it happened. I had told her about it the morning of the show and then I had talked to her about it right before I in, “Hey Mom, I’m going to the opening of my art show.”

Now if your daughter said to you, “Hey, I’m gonna have a piece of art work hanging in an art gallery.” Wouldn’t you venture to ask for an invitation? I would. But she never has. She has also been to my apartment, which has artwork leaning up against walls, and against furniture and in frames on the floors. Does she ever glance at them or say, Can I see that? Nope. She has never expressed one shred of interest in looking at any of my work. I did scan one early drawing and sent it to her and she said she liked it, but I shouldn’t have to force feed my work to her. She should be able to ask about it on her own. Like say show some interest in her daughter. Like for the first time ever.

So driving to the gallery today I was really lonely. I have nobody in town I could invite to the opening. I guess I could have invited “A” since we occasionally talk about art, and he appears to have more than a passing knowledge of it, but now that I think that my piece at the cool gallery is a piece of crap, I don’t think I will be extending an invitation. Ever. To anyone.

Damn this self esteem thing. It has worsened expedentionally since Married Guy has stepped out of the picture, and I really don’t know what to do to stop this incredible slide. And on October 22, I have one more chance to torture the public with my crappy art when they have a show down at my case mgt place. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t even submit anything to these places anymore. Why? Because seeing my art hanging in public places is starting to feel like a root canal without anesthesia.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty