There was a time in my life where I considered myself more an artist than a writer. I wanted to be a writer since I was probably 10 years old if not younger. I rather proudly announced that at my 6th grade graduation I was going to be a writer much to the amusement and confusion of my immigrant parents.
A few years ago, I was working as an arts instructor, blogger, convention booth worker, enews editor and basically as many hats as you can think of, I was wearing. I am a published artist. I did struggle for many months in calling myself that because my “art” was essentially a hobby or craft for most people. I am a rubber stamper.
Rubber Stamping was just my springboard into the art world. I’ve always been creative but stamps allowed me to bridge my poor drawing skills to a higher art form. I wasn’t just making greeting cards though that seemed to be the bulk of my “business.” Oh, didn’t I mention I was also making and selling my cards for craft fairs and private buyers?
Let me backtrack. When I first got into stamping, I was trading and making art via the mail art scene. This grew out of the dada and surrealist movements where artists believed art should be free and available widely– not just to be displayed in museums. Artists used the postal service to send their artwork. At that time I considered myself a collage artist. Now I tend to say I’m a multi-media artist specializing in assemblage (a fancy term for “collage”).
I was getting mail art using rubber stamps. Some were homemade but usually they were commercially made rubber stamps. Eventually, I even produced my own rubber stamps since I am the kind of person that needed to understand everything about my hobby, er, work.
This new world opened up to me and I made a lot of friends and I still love the creative process but the business end made me burn out. It boiled down to the fact that though I loved it, I wasn’t making any money. The classes I taught, the cards and other artwork I sold, my “appearances” at conventions? I probably lost money because I kept buying supplies. I still have enough to start a small store.
I also had a life change. I became single. No longer was I just sitting at home putzing away into the wee hours of the night, sitting in reams of paper, yards of ribbon and sleeping with almost-permanently ink-stained fingers.
I’ve always been a social person. But suddenly I was going out almost every night of the week. I made new friends, real-life friends. Slowly, I put away my art supplies and took up a new title. Foodie.
Now, I’ve always been interested in food. I did run a dining club for three years. I was fairly obsessive when researching new places to eat. But suddenly, I needed to understand everything. I have always liked watching cooking shows and while I never follow a recipe, I was inspired to cook. I bought new ingredients. I was experimenting.
Oh, and yes, I was still going out every night of the week and my palate sharpened.
But what about this writing thing? I am writing a book. It’s about dating in L.A., a topic I know nothing and everything about. I enjoy being single. I just don’t enjoy dating. Or perhaps the process of dating. I actually try as much as possible to have fun on dates. I console myself that if it’s a bad date, at least it’s just a date and not a bad relationship. And most likely, it’ll be a funny story to tell friends and oh yeah, this book.
So here we go; writing, art, food and love. And just for the heck of it, everything else.