So the BF and I were furniture shopping this weekend, again. That's the problem with a new house — it needs new furniture. I maintain that I found our new couch, and promptly sat down on it in the display room and started flipping through the fabric samples and asking the BF which colors he liked. OK. I picked out the couch color and then started telling the BF which fabrics I liked for the accent pillows.
He wrinkled up his face and told me I had no idea which patterns went with the blue I'd picked for the couch. Which was when I reminded him that I am an artist. Say it with me, "ARRRRRRR...TEEEEEESSSST." I work with colors everyday. I have a pretty firm grasp of how colors and patterns work with each other.
This is when the salesgirl asked me what kind of artist I am. Actually, she asked me what medium I work in. So I told her I do nails.
Now, she was very polite and we had a fun little conversation about art, but I still saw her expression when I said "nails." That expression that says, "you're not a real artist."
Well, I guess if being a "real" artist means that I have to paint or sculpt for the sheer sake of painting or sculpting and then find someone who likes what I've painted or sculpted enough to pay for it just for the sake of having something to hang over their sofa or put in their lobby, then maybe I don't qualify. And I don't have a degree in art. I started down that road and got distracted by the fact that I could actually make a living painting and sculpting things that people would pay for.
Oh wait. Isn't that what a "real" artist does? Or — just to play with the cliché — is the problem that I can actually make a living doing it?
Either way, don't ever mistake that fact that I am an artist. In spirit, career, and attitude. I'm not the most amazing artist in the world, or even in the nail world. But I don't consider myself anything else.
And the BF had to eventually break down and admit that it turned out that my fabric choices did look good together! Now we just have to agree on the actual couch.