I scoured through a mountain of mail after arriving home from my road trip, hoping for a letter of acceptance.
I had entered “My Creative Mojo,” a series of autobiographical sculptures, in a juried show at a well-respected local gallery.
No such luck.
Instead, the self-addressed, stamped envelope with the CD of my submitted images glared at me from its place in the pile. To add insult to injury, it had cost me thirty dollars. Easy come, easy go.
This was my second experience entering a show, with similarly abysmal results. Remind me again why I did this. Hope springs eternal?
I am an outsider, an imposter, a sham.
How on earth will I make money with my art?
I imagine myself on the craft fair circuit, packing and unpacking a plethora of mugs, setting up and taking down my booth.
For a moment, I consider getting a job selling insurance, like composer Charles Ives. Apparently he thought that making money with his music would make him a sellout. Not that I compare myself to the great Mr. Ives. I might sell insurance, too, if I could write The Unanswered Question.
I think about other options. A web design business? Graphic design? I don’t rule out either of those alternatives, but both would require significant education. There must be a rule about going so long without any substantial income, just doing art and taking odd jobs to take up some of the slack in funds and pay for materials. Oh yeah. It’s called the law of diminishing returns….uhhhh…funds.
I love where I live, but I could sell my house and invest the proceeds. Except renting in my neighborhood would be just as expensive, taking my mortgage interest tax deduction into account.
I’m going to have to do a lot more than thinking about this. In three weeks my daughter’s leaving for college, beginning the era of the bottomless checkbook.
Ooph. My head hurts. Tomorrow.
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