We.

Oh the bee bee. 

He's gone for a Month,

for work, 

for this home,

for us.

It's not easy, 

missing your best friend.

But it's better that you know the marrow of your bones 

miss this man

than glide lightly through the next decade

without him.

Missing on him.

But for now,

my bed is a cocoon of heavy blankets

sketchbooks and reading material,

journals and late night drawing sessions.

A pile of Rolling Stones stack up near my knees,

and I promise to devour them all before his return.

And don't tell, but there's an old stinky yellow lab

right next to me

whose blonde hair will surely give me away.

No dogs in the bed is a stupid rule anyway. 

It's a great morning, a great time for thinking about the next adventure,

to dream in a singular term,

only to enrich what *we* are. 

I dig my toes to the bottom of these sheets,

and stretch to his side of the bed,

which he would argue,

isn't more than a foot or so.

I am a notorious bed-hog,

and I revel in all the space this morning. 

But the dog keeps me on my side,

and I feel a bit guilty for shoving him out of my elbow's way.  

I do wish someone would bring me some coffee,

but I fight the urge to close my eyes a little longer,

and get up to make the coffee myself.

The house is chilly, 

the October air sneaks through the cracks in our drywall.

The barely-sunrise air calls me back to bed as I force a teapot to boil.

My nose is sniffly from the chill,

but the slippers keep these feet off the icy floor. 

That's what you get for tearing off half your home

at the sign of fall's first frost. 

I've never been more appreciative of an already-built fire in our wood stove,

roaring before the sun was up.

And insulation.  Yep.  Insulation is awesome. 

I swear I just saw my breath condense. inside. 

I believe it's imperative for a couple to spend time apart.

I really think it's easy to loose touch of your roots.

of who you were before there was a *we*.

And it's important for me to know it,

feel it in these slippered toes,

that yes,

I am a better version of myself than I was last year,

and the year before that. 

I am good.

Strong.

Happy. 

I could be alone. 

I am not afraid of it.

I could build that fire and warm up our home. 

I made that coffee for myself,

and I'm going to work on what I can of our construction project

today. alone. too. 

But I am better with him.

No doubt about that. 

This home is warmer with him here. 

I am a better me when he is here. 

The teapot crones it's whistle,

I jump out of this bedding nest,

startle the dog,

and start today.

But it's the *we* that I start today with,

And it makes me crack a quick morning smile. 

up and at 'em. 

Part 1: Battling the Monkey: A request and warning from a dedicated working artist

I've thought it over and over and over again...

How will I ever make this studio business work?
I mean, really, don't they call it STARVING ARTIST for nothing?
I mean, where is this REALLY going?
How in the EVERLOVING HELL will I make a living being an ARTIST?

For years, I've battled many doubts about this path. And I've mentioned them.

Here.  and Here.  and Here. and Here.

"How will I ever pay my mortgage, build a website, master the in's and out's of social media, conquer fancy cameras, keep electricity bills at bay, build portfolios, wholesale goods, keep gas in cars, find good gallery representation, hover over latest and greatest work in my medium, find inspiration to fuel work, pay taxes, mow lawn so neighbors aren't pissed, re-fuel creative well, keep current friendships in tact, continue pursuing other hobbies and passions, grow gardens, call mom, entertain friends, enjoy love at it's best and at it's worst, produce holiday shows, write blogs with integrity, build brand, etc."

And the list goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

Ya' know what, though?  I'm still here.
After nearly 6 collected years of spotty schooling, debt, un-paths,
and the horrible misfortune of realizing my trust fund was....a fantasy,
after starting this *for real* 4 years ago,
R&S IS a business.
I pay taxes (30% people!), and a mortgage.
I feed myself, and occasionally get to travel.
I even bought *SQUEAL* new BOOTS this year! (Yes, the ones you wear. on your feet.)

I love it.
It's not easy.
But I love it.
In fact, I'm not sure how I lived life WITHOUT IT.
My bank account nears the red-zone more than I care to admit,
and I know the city water shut-off guy by name now.
I constantly am battling the "am I good enough" monkey on my back,
and I didn't even qualify for Obamacare because I'm too poor.
I don't have a savings account, a retirement plan, or a 401-K.
But I couldn't imagine life without such a raw outlet for whatever this world throws me.
I am blessed with an audience of stone and silver lovers, a few collectors, and a vibrant art scene.
I am blessed with the day and age where fine art is taught to be valued,
where artists are taught to be business people.

But I make a fair and honest request:

Ask an artist.
A REAL studio artist, who slaves and bleeds into their work,
whose main focus in life is to make beautiful things for this world,
who devours articles in their field like good homemade mac and cheese,
who can't get enough creative stimulation, from film, and books, and people, and the mountains,
who can't get enough ART in their daily habit,
whose research and love of the medium is found in their recent google history,
who can't get enough time to talk about whatever it is they are passionate about to joe-blo at the supermarket, after him remarking "how awesome that piece is/was/will be"...
whose blinding and intense work ethic is something to be reckoned with.
who NEVER GIVES UP, regardless of what the world continues to push,
even when their bank accounts are in a completely unavoidable move between work that sells
and work that does not.

Ask an artist what they are worth.
I guarantee you,
they couldn't tell you.
Billable hours?  an actual HOURLY WAGE? A projected SALARY?
I only say this because carpenters who build homes know.
Because electricians know.
Because teachers and doctors and construction workers and policemen know.
This is NEVER up for debate, what a professional is worth. It just IS.

Then there are the studio artists....
The ones who couldn't tell you what they are worth per hour.  per project.  per year.
This I've come to know as a breed, a people, a force of continual energy of the universe.
They are tough-skinned folk. Because criticism abounds, they have to be.
Mama always says "opinions are like assholes, everybody's got one."
It takes balls bigger than you think you have to DO THIS.
And it's SCARY AS SHIT to actually think of yourself as an hourly-wage earner.
And it's even scarier to look at the account balance of $0.16 and NOT want to quit.

It takes patience to look the "Why is this almost $500?" customer in the eyes without baring fangs, and calmly educate them as to WHAT IT IS THEY ARE LOOKING AT.

Don't expect these artist-types to be iron-clad,  though, or even super-human.
Artists are not magicians.  They cannot make everything.
They don't WANT to make everything.

Make no mistake of the passion and love and intensity (and sensitivity) capable of these fierce souls.

These are the workers of our time, 

consumed by a passion with such blinding intensity
that not even the jack-hammer at the construction site down the street is a distraction.
It's all undivided attention to a craft/skill/medium/art that borderlines obsession.
It's THAT intensity from the artist somewhere, you know,
that THOUGHT UP the CONCEPT AND DESIGN of a JACKHAMMER.


SO WHEN YOU SAY:

This is so expensive!
I could never justify that price.
Could you give me a deal?

I could have made that.
It looks like something easy to make.

How did you do that?
Can you tell me where to buy those supplies? (so I can copy you...)
and could you tell me where to get a deal?

Is that super-glued?
Can you super-glue this for me?
won't you give me a deal, because it's JUST glue, right?

Remember these fierce souls.
Remember the fight they fight on a daily basis.
Remember that intensity that makes them bleed art and integrity.
Remember their google history, and their student loans/training/investment in their craft.
Remember that YOU know how much you are worth per hour,
and are not required to give an explanation as to why you cost what you do.
Remember the countless hours of makings, re-makings, and tearing-aparts because it just *wasn't*
Remember the way you felt when you first saw that thing on Pinterest that made your heart skip,
and then...
please then.....
remember the Artist.

Because something honest comes from intensity and dedication and education.
There's YEARS of practice, schooling, and professional training.
There's STUDYING.  (YES! LOTS!) And probably debt too.
There's CONSTANT process that is practiced, it's called WORK.
That dedicated practice will one day create something awesome you MIGHT just be lucky enough
to take home/wear/look at FOREVER.

And that's something you should be able to put a price on. Right?

That fierceness that makes creatives tick, it's like a fire.
And if you know anything about fire,
you know fires burn hot and sometimes burn quick.
And for sure, make no mistake about it......
that passion bubbles from the cages of my ribs, from the depths of everything I am...
sometimes erupts like fire as a quick and short-worded contest
to an almost constant disrespect of the word ART.  Maybe not from YOU.  But constant.

Fierceness translates in a glance under sunglasses after you've just asked any or all these things.


It sure as hell isn't super glue.