Pandemic Obsessions
Art Lives On, In, and Through Us--No Matter the Times
We all made pandemic purchases we regret. Mine is currently at my mother’s home after having lived at a bestie’s home for a while, and after not finding a buyer for way less than what I paid for it.
It is a piece of art—a wall hanging, a tapestry of loose and wild thick yarns, a patch or two of super close-cut yarns, spiraling lace trim, and a strip of faux pearls. During the pandemic, I filled my home with house plants and art. I perused online art galleries across the country, drooling over the beauty out there, the talent. Oil, encaustic, and acrylic paintings. Mixed media mashups. Evocative photos. And yes, this one textile artist too. I loved her work and saw that every time she posted new pieces, they sold out immediately.
I got on her mailing list so I could be alerted in advance of the next batch of goodies. Her colorwork struck me. During the pandemic, I wanted to live in the spectrum of brights and bolds, contrast and shock.
A new sale date was set! I previewed the pieces and chose one, then sat on my laptop at midnight hitting refresh. The thing is, my desire to GET one of this artist’s works overrode my original feeling about what I was choosing from. Unlike the stunners that originally drew me in—which were practically glowing and neon like some undiscovered coral reef—this was a batch of pastel pieces. Shoot.
BUT I WANTED ONE, so, I chose the tapestry that had at least one lime-green feature in it and, hitting refresh/refresh and Add to Cart/Add to Cart… lo and behold, “I won!” I was faster on the keyboard than hundreds or thousands of other buyers that night and the piece was mine. I gulped. It was not inexpensive, not for me anyway, but that was that. I felt good, I told myself, supporting artists. (I know our struggle!) And maybe the pastel palette would be okay. I’d grow to like it.
The piece arrived and I hung it. It was thick and glorious, frilly and pretty, fun and totally unique, a tactile-delight, a statement piece. But ultimately, I had buyer’s remorse. Pastels, it turns out, make me kind of sad!
I don’t know what will become of the tapestry. For now, it’s going into the attic because the bestie who temporarily housed and loved it is on a new life path right now. She, like me, has moved away from the wonderful coastal Washington town we once roamed together, but for different reasons. She, like me, is building a life abroad, but in a different country.
The pastel piece brought her joy and looking at it daily, she said, she had a little piece of me still, nearby. But now, it also carries memories of the home she just sold after her husband (my friend) died unexpectedly, and I get it… this is sadness. Grief.
There’s been a whole lot of letting go, for so many people I know, this past year or two.
What I did not let go of (sorry, my sweet house plant babies!)—what made it to the Azores with me—is a WHOLE BUNCH of work from another female artist I stumbled upon during the pandemic.
Thankfully, Jean Smith’s amazing portraits measure 11 x 14” and fit in a suitcase.
Thankfully, too, after loooooong pandemic days, weeks, and months of responding to her posts of new paintings available, to no avail, I finally got in. I won! I got my first YAY from Jean with an option to add a few more pieces to my shipment.
Jean’s paintings felt near impossible to get in the height of the pandemic. Knowing she was a musician and that all profits from the sale of her paintings were going toward the purchase and founding of an artists’ residency (a cause I wholeheartedly support), in desperation, I sent her a “dance video.” I was baking Christmas cookies (the infamous Period Cookies were of this era), and felt sure that such a personal touch would make me stand out as a kindred soul, a deserving fanatic.
No response.
“Shit,” I thought, “Jean was in a punk rock band and I danced to the BeeGees? She probably hates disco and now she hates me too. I’ll never own a Jean Smith painting!”
With Jean not replying to my delicious dance moves, I continued to try to figure out her system. What time did she normally post new paintings? If I was the first person to reply, “Me, please + location” would I get it? No. The third person? She said she randomly chose recipients, but I wanted to figure out her random. Ha. She’s so punk rock. I was baffled and discouraged.
Giving up on the idea I’d ever own a Jean Smith, I decided I could do my own version.
I am not a painter, I have never been a painter, I have never studied painting or even figured out how the color wheel works. Okay, long ago I dated a painter and he did teach me some things like how not to overdo the paint and MUDDY a canvas, how hands are super hard to capture, and hmmm, that’s all I can remember.
Certain I would figure it out as I went along, I hoofed it down to the local art supply store with my mask on and spent hundreds of dollars on blank canvases, brushes, oil paints, and supposedly scent-free solvent.
My portraits turned out terrible and bonkers. My darling mother insisted on framing two of them, and I went back to checking in on Facebook every couple of hours just for Jean Smith.
Just to torment myself.
When I finally did “break through” Jean’s system and the masses of loyal fans and new ones, I bought not one, but three women. I had them framed at my local frame shop, hung them on my wall, and named them Marsha, Marsha, Marsha(IYKYK).
After my Marshas, I ordered several “women with cats” and gifted a couple to friends (and one to my mother). When Jean came out with a “women at the club” series, I could not resist.
In our back and forth messaging over orders and shipping, I told Jean about sending that video (she has no memory of it) and trying to copy her (“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness,” right?) She laughed (maybe at my paintings, maybe not). When she began posting photos of buyers with portraits, I sent her mine. I’ve never received so many Likes on my own Facebook posts.
In the meantime, five years post-pandemic (I know, weird, right?) I’m in a “cooling phase,” spending less money right now on art (and travel). I’ll stick to being mediocre-at-best with colored pencils, sketching vintage Cointreau women or random women that end up looking like my bestie sitting in some fabulous Italian café (awaiting our next European adventure).
And I will always tell people about Jean Smith. Hell, if someone wants to hire me as the protector of any Jean Smith wing they build, I’m game!
🩵💜💚🤍🩶💘❣️ love you 🥰