The Dogged Reality of Being an Artist
On canine friends, starting (over, again, anew), and the creative life. Plus, Seinfeld at college graduation and pencil sharpeners.
Last weekend, someone asked me if I was an artist. Not because I’d taken up painting and created some Basquiat-inspired masterpiece. Or belted out the lyrics to a song I’d written late at night during a fever dream. Rather, because of the colorful signs I created for a yard sale. I put my bubble-letter skills to the test and drew up two handfuls of signs advertising that we were getting rid of “BOOKS!” “FURNITURE!” “DECOR!” “FASHION!” at a “BIG!” “SALE!” “TODAY!” and installed these signs on the main road near my brother’s house. His house is at the end of a long block so I also hung other signs of encouragement along it from telephone poles, spaced 10 feet apart, that said: “KEEP” and “GOING!” then “ALMOST” and “THERE!” and “BIT” and “MORE!”
Then, finally, at the end of the driveway: “YOU MADE IT!”
Not only did the people make it, but they arrived pleased, entertained, and impressed!
“Great signs!”
“So clever!”
“Who made the signs?”
“Are you an artist?”
The signs were the first thing everyone remarked upon after parking their car to sift through the likes of “Forever 80s” CDs, a lighthouse-shaped lamp, and beige pleather dining chairs from Pier One.
I was flattered, of course. But I also didn’t know how to respond.
“I made the signs,” I said, raising my hand; a large smile forming across my face.
Am I an artist, though? For having made some not-so-basic yard sale signs? It felt strange to admit, but I suppose the ability to draw people in; to astonish and impress and delight — be it with words or bubble letters; in an article published or to a yard sale — makes me an artist.
Why is it so hard for me to own this designation?
The imposter syndrome has been at an all-time-high lately and not just because I’m using some of my talents to scribble on poster board with paint markers to advertise a yard sale, but while continuing to job hunt and freelance for various publications, I have also become something of a dog sitter for hire. In addition to watching Maggie and Indy on the homestead in Long Island since moving back to the U.S. from Paris four months ago, there has also been Bea, Otis, Stewart, and Buster in the West Village, and Gigi in Brooklyn.
This wasn’t part of my plan; to figure out a nightly price and ask friends to spread the word about my top-quality feeding, walking, and scooping services. I didn’t even see it coming despite my clout as a four-legged-friend-enthusiast who at various times during her Paris tenure cozied up to the likes of Fitzy, Chloe, and a very yappy Pomeranian who shall not be named because of the PTSD he left me with. (Note to self: No puppies.) Yet, somewhere along the way of my moving back to the U.S. in pursuit of a staff job for which I make a steady salary that affords me a home whose windows don’t face brick walls and has room to host at least four friends for dinner, I have found myself defrosting smelly mush and placing plastic bags in every pocket so that I have interim places to stay in the city and some spending money for when I’m there. It’s all fine and good. Smart, even. Like, duh. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I like dogs. Dogs like me. Those who can afford to pay for the service tend to live in lovely homes. It’s just that I’m doing it for folks who are my contemporaries, which makes the proverbial pill slightly harder to swallow—as sugar-coated as it may be. (See: the rather magnificent million-dollar apartments I’ve gotten to stay in while cuddling their pets whose vitamin and supplement regimens are more intensive than my own.) I am living a sort of fantasy life; staying in spaces I can only dream of having myself with backyards and dishwashers and automatic blinds and central AC and museum-quality artwork while picking up the poop of someone else’s reality. Lucky them? Lucky me? Lucky for us both?
It’s a very humbling feeling, but one every artist in the history of man-and-woman-kind has come to experience, rectify, and ultimately (hopefully!) make peace with. Rather than working doggedly (pun intended) in the traditional sense—up early, at a desk, etc.—we do so from, say, the lounge chair of a roof deck and between the hours of 2p.m. and 9p.m. or whenever the heck the mood strikes or doesn’t because being an artist is hard work that a lot of times doesn’t look like work at all and, sadly, often pays very little. You don’t just flip a switch and come up with a clever way to start an essay or feel inspired to choreograph a dance or draw some yard sale signs, as it were.
I’ve been beating myself up over not having much to say or write about in this space for the past few weeks, but then I was reminded—while sitting on said roof deck, midday on Monday, reading a three-month-old issue of T: The New York Times Style Magazine, which just so happened to be about living an artistic life—that the whole point is artists get to do it on their terms and all of us (oof, there it is: us!) at one time or another, has struggled and failed and begun again in the process. It’s what makes the trade both liberating and utterly exasperating.
So many “great” artists—classified as such subjectively, of course, by society, family, friends, themselves, etc.—have worn many hats, pursued many projects, and lived many lives; interesting, wild, questionable, challenging, sometimes embarrassing and often intentionally anonymous lives. There’s strength in numbers, which I guess is why being reminded of this collective has provided me with extra hope and encouragement. Or, as writer Aatish Taseer so eloquently put it in an article for the magazine: “It’s exhilarating to see destiny pick those who could but only have been artists out of the mundanity of their lives and light the way to a life of vocation.”
The letter from the magazine’s editor, Hanya Yanagihara, felt like it was speaking directly to me:
“Living a true creative life means facing an endless series of beginnings: It’s starting over after setbacks; it’s pushing forward through doubt and despair; it’s trying again when someone tells you no; it’s slogging ahead when no one seems to like or care about what you make; it’s ignoring the voice inside you that tells you to stop; it’s striving and failing, again and again and again. There is no point of complete security, no award or recognition that bestows total confidence — a life in art means that, to some degree, you’re starting anew every day…It takes humility. It takes a kind of arrogance that sees you through the most barren periods.”
So what if my starting anew back in New York hasn’t yet amounted to the admittedly high ideals I set for myself in a city where almost no one can keep up or swallow adding $11 chicken to a $15 Caesar salad, let alone rent? So what if I’m quoting someone else’s meaningful words instead of having someone quote mine? So what if I haven’t found The New Job or The New Apartment yet? So what if it’s not all mine, mine, mine. How fortunate am I to have the opportunity—the freedom, the flexibility, the resourcefulness—to borrow? To try other people’s every day on for size before signing on any dotted lines. Rather than a space of my own, I get space to breathe. I can settle into myself and all the transitional feelings, rather than a permanent address with a mailbox ready to receive bills with monthly due dates. I get to be inspired. To make tweaks and modifications. To amble about on a rooftop enjoying the view while also coming up with the theme for the next newsletter...
In time, at the end of the driveway, I gotta believe it’ll say: “YOU MADE IT!”
xx — Sara
Clickable
On surviving over and over. | The Atlantic
Alain Ducasse is a tough chef to crack. | Esquire
Brat Pack memories of “recognition and mutual affection.” | The NY Times
PLUS: New restos, French dining etiquette, and more. | Eater
A near-perfect essay on the movie “Singles” and marriage. | The NY Times Magazine
Parents, you’re doing fine. With love, the Aunties. | Romper
Travel inspo from a French artist road-tripping the USA. | Nat Geo
“The urge to ascend.” | Noema
Watchable
“Try to enjoy some of the dumbness of it all,” Seinfeld told Duke’s graduating class of 2024. I can’t tell whether this was meant to be funny or depressing, but the humility, humor, and self-deprecation he shared in his commencement speech were so very Jerry Seinfeld and therefore so very refreshing.
Currently overthinking…
…where to go with a dear friend in July when she visits the States from Paris…whether to pre-purchase very expensive concert tickets for my birthday or wait and hope I can get cheaper the day of…
Souvenir: Pencil Sharpener
Last week, while making the signs, I sketched out the words first with a pencil. (Yes, I was that devoted to crafting ace signs.) In doing so, the point inevitably lost its sharpness and the eraserhead fell off after first creating fugly smudge marks. The worst!
Sadly, despite my brother having a very impressive collection of arts and crafts for a 37-year-old straight man without kids, he did not have a pencil sharpener. This showed our age difference and reminded me of the old-school pencil sharpeners attached to desks that we had to churn manually. Remember going up to the front of the class to do so? I was always so nervous. Like, what if something was stuck to my butt, or I had my period and it leaked, and now everyone would see as I stood there churning and churning and churning only for the pencil to—FUUUUUCK—break mid-churn, leaving me to start again?! It felt like an eternity up there. Who’s with me?
You care so much. That's what makes you an artist. That's what makes your signs the best. That's what makes you an amazing writer and editor. You are connected to your audience. It's beautiful.
Since you designed and drew yard sale signs, I'd say that makes you a YARDIST