There are many misconceptions of me, that I have learned to live with. Many have come about from people taking in my general appearance. Others are generated by my general aura. Others still, are the spawn of various stereotypes and my bemoaning my love of coffee and Mariah Carey at various intervals of the day. But one of the biggest misconceptions that I have come to find niggling at my back brain, is the heavy misconception that I am artistic. Not autistic, although at times I can be perceived as such, and as I like to highlight, there is a fine line between the two, but ARTISTIC (Dear God, I’m an insensitive wench, aren’t I?).
At one stage of my simple life, I would of loved to be seen as Artistic. Tortured, even, in a spat of self-hatred and wallowing, inconceivable self-instigated “No One Understands Me”. But no, not today. And why is this? Because, in all honesty, I am not artistic. When I was four, I was thought of to be a maestro at using a Biro. Yes, a simple Bic Biro could have me filling the air with intoxicating fumes, while I scribbled proportionality askew figures in old pages of a relinquished diary. At an age where the use of a Biro was close to sinful – apparently, we weren’t allowed to use Biro in our written work at school until grade five – I was joyfully scratching out images of Sailor Moon and her world-saving crew – admittedly with wonky eyes and fat thighs, but passable images, all the same.
By the time I hit Grade One, I was belting out stitch work of platypus(es?) so illustrious, my teacher cried. Well, that crying may of been the result of me accidentally stitching half of my work to my sweater, but all the same, I took the emotional response as a hail to my creativity, as opposed to a wail at my stupidity. I was six, okay. Anything is possible when you’re six. From Grades 2 to 6, I became an artistic maestro, churning out works so awe inspiring, I won prizes in the form of new-fangled Faber Castell Watercolor Pencil sets and charcoal sticks – suffice to say, my mother no longer had to make harrowing trips to the shops to pick up art supplies for those years.
In Grade 7, I showed my other tartan clad classmates (I went to a “Scottish” school. Yes, I know. We wore Christmas Tartan all year round.) who was the most supreme by being given The Keys To The Art Supply Cupboard. I commandeered my post with almost scary superiority and was allowed to cruise in and out of the PVC-scented room at will – surrounded by chipboard cut offs and a teetering pile of crepe paper, I was in my Zone. To say I was a bit of a Supply Nazi would be a horrible understatement, if a child needed scissors, I would glare at them from behind my gold-rimmed glasses, burn them with an ice-cold stare, treat them to a manic grin and demand that they list off their reasons as to why they would be required. In 85% of cases, my fellow 12 year-old counterparts would be so put-off by my intimidating attitude, they would resort of taking their teeth to various “needed to be cut” surfaces like nervous beavers, throwing mortified looks in my direction.
This mad cycle of events culminated in me being presented two awards in Grade 7: Artistic Achievement and Best All-Round Achiever. The second, I maintain was not by choice, but that even the teachers feared my presence, and had selected me out of unbridled terror: I was loud, I was menacing, I had laugh that could turn stone in rubble, and even though not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I had an unbridled tendency to WANT TO BE an overachiever – a quality that was fueled by both parental disappointment and a maddeningly over-intelligent older sister.
In high school this all changed, being artistic was Not Approved Of nor was it Tolerated in my family. Art was “For fun, not for living off”, and thus, I was committed to applying myself lethargically to subjects such as Biology (of which I was average at) and Chemistry (of which I was shocking at) and Physics (of which I failed so badly, I switched to Economics, of which I ironically became subject captain of). And so, today, I stand as a Medical Scientist, a profession I maintain, that I love but at the same time, tolerate as a Day Job and not as a Passion. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to follow my passion, to be artistic, to be able to express myself – perhaps not in song-and-dance, but maybe something a little less embarrassing.
AS A SIDE-WAYS THOUGHT: Here are some lovely Brisbanites who I have found to be ridiculously over-skilled in the artistic arena. This is one of the reasons why I love Etsy so – apart from it’s massive range of various wares from all over the world, it also has a fantastic Shop Local function, allowing seasoned
stalkers interested persons, such as myself, to stalk find great local artists and support their work (buy buying big, and making myself feel superior). SO HEY, check these out!
Brilliant Trees Collective; SHOPNAME: “BRILLIANTTRESSCOLL“; SHOP
I always say: “When I get my own place I will totally…” and when I say this sentence, I mean “I will totally get me some of these tea towels”. I mean seriously, check these out! Radcicles! I could never get away with purchasing them for my home now, as my dear mother would freak out – SKULLS IN THE KITCHEN!?!?! But yes, skills in the kitchen. Freakin’-A+-Awesome.
And at $19 a pop, with some very low postage fees, I say, buy like, 7. One for each day.
Girlie Pains; SHOPNAME: “GIRLIEPAINS“; SHOP
I first came across this artist (Mel Stringer) in a Frankie Magazine – and fellow Frankie Mag girls will recognise her work from the special edition “Wrapping Paper” Christmas mag. AND DID YOU KNOW: The price for that magazine has sky rocketed? Insane! So, I was totally stoked to find out that she also sold her wares on Etsy – and at VERY reasonable prices. I’ve already claimed a few items to my shopping basket, so girls, I’m on the warpath – don’t get in my way. GAME FACE ON.
Hello Kia; SHOP NAME: “HELLO KIA“; SHOP
I love the crafting – and I absolutely love rubber stamps! I wish I could use them far more often then I do – but check out these little beauties – hand made and absolutely lovely, they’ll make you want to indiscriminately stamp little doo-dads on pretty much anything. Even your tax returns. Even your marriage certificate. Hell, even your unborn children.
Your Organ Grinder; SHOP NAME: “YOUR ORGAN GRINDER”; SHOP
The description of the store handles exactly what’s made here: “Handmade Specimens in Jars, Brooches and Displays. Anatomical Curios, Medical Marvels, Taxidermy in Felt. Felted Brains and other Organs and Parasites.” – That’s right, want a tape worm made of felt? Find it here! Want an anatomically correct heart made of felt? Find it here! Totally awesome, an absolutely bizarre – worth a look. Eventually I would like one of these on a shelf, just for kicks, as a hurrah to my Day Job of being a Medical Scientist. LOOK KIDS! BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIINS!
Sorry, I just have to post the description:
Pair of Handmade Ovaries in a little glass jar.
These Ovaries are made using wool felt and dmc embroidery cotton. The stitching on the Ovaries is based on an anatomical drawing then interpreted using different thread colours.
Glass Jar is 6.5cms by 5.5cms.
The Ovaries will be shipped in a small box to prevent breakage in the post. I have shipped many different jars before and none have broken yet, but there is always the chance, if this happens please purchase another small jar for your Ovaries.