11/4/23

I never intended on being nothing. From a very young age I knew I wanted to exist somewhere I could be seen. Whether or not that derives from ego or rather a sense of wanting recognition I dont feel I ever recieved is a moot point, though I feel it might be a healthy mix of both. Regardless, when it came time that I was given a choice on the direction to head for the rest of my life, I went somewhere I hadn't necessarily given much thought about. Fashion to me is one of the most raw forms of personal expression. Yes, I liked to paint and draw, and I dabbled in an orchestra and sang for most of my life, but those are things that get overlooked more often than not; plenty of real estate agents can probably sing, but there's reason to direct your career towards that simply because you can. Fashion is a second layer of skin, even though I was better at painting than I was sewing at the time, I wanted my mark on life to be that I contributed to something people can't avoid paying attention to, and that's where the ego comes in. The real driving force behind my decision was not elevated; it wasnt based on my desire to perform or to contribute to anything worth noting. As much as I carry "art" in my mind no matter where I am, what I really wanted was security. I didn't want the life I had already been leading, enough to survive, not enough to live. As hard as my parents worked, I saw the weight that money put on their shoulders, despite constant attempts to balance wants and desired with finance, finance seemed to always gain the upper hand. I don't want to be rich. I don't want to live in a house so large I have two living rooms, or enough guest beds to host my extended family tree around the holidays. I simply want to exist in a space where my decisions, my livelihood, and my connection to the world, to not consumed by the amount of money in my possession, much less the hours contributed to a company that pays for pizza parties rather than PTO. 

What's more, I don't want the heat. I don't want to have to compete to prove my worth or to exist in a space that encourages such behavior. I don't have it in me. When it comes down to it, I trust I can show who I am, and that I can put in the work to achieve the benefits I am working towards, but I dropped soccer after one season, and swim lessons I quit because I am a better teacher, gymnastics I withdrew from; I can't compete. In my heart I know what I'm capable of, in my heart, I know when the time comes I'll simply get over and do what needs to be done, because at the end of the day, Fashion has more turnover than a restaurant on a college campus, and I will either step on toes or get my toes stepped on. The fear of failure is my truest and most real muse. My passion for fashion (haha) is present and accounted for, I have no doubts about what I contribute to the art I aspire towards, but my desire to make enough money to take my Mom to Disney World far exceeds any of that. I just want to be okay. 

When I began my education my initial desires revolved entirely around what I could make of myself. Though, admittedly, my experience in the fashion area of study was limited to knitting, crocheting, and a few shirts and pairs of pants, the excitement I felt to begin spreading my wings in a field I had now committed my life was palpable. Coming from a small town, my expectations of moving to a known city, as in ones big enough to show up on those little globe pencil sharpeners, were exceeded by the immediate intimidation I felt upon attending my first semester of fashion classes. As much as I had wanted to move somewhere known, somewhere that I wouldn't get as many questions about my outfits, about the existence of someone presenting as I do, I came to find that I was incredibly not unique. I had failed to consider the aspect of me living in a bigger city, and how that would contrast with literally every memory I had up until that point. However, I got what I had wanted; I didn't stick out quite so much. Not to say there aren't nor weren't people like me back home, just that it was considerably less common, the culture shock I experienced when realizing I came off as somewhat tame in comparison to the place I found myself in was enough to shake me off, momentarily off balanced in where in that range of basic to Avant Gard did I want to lie. Rest assured that didn't sit quite right with me. Attending college was not an easy feat for me to pull off. I didn't come from a family that could, as much as they wanted to, afford to do it for me; they helped and continue to where they can. My choice to put it all on myself was a choice I made, a stressful one at that, that I made because I felt passionate enough about something to make it worth the financial risk I will most likely be in later on in my life. 

I never found a necessity to take my academics very seriously. I attended schools, K-12, that had a less than average take on their curriculums. Grateful as I am for the stories I now tell fondly, as well as the amazingly long-lasting friendships still ongoing, I was put in an educational system that prided different kinds of achievement. We developed critical thinking skills, a good amount of self and cooperative peer-to-peer education, and a strong emphasis on the arts; performance, painting, writing, music, and occasionally eurythmy included. Up until 7th grade, I didn't have many more than a dozen homework assignments throughout my entire education, and upon my receiving of homework in 8th-grade algebra, I turned in maybe two assignments in the entire year. High School there was a considerable amount of expectations put on my class, and myself especially, as I and my class were the first freshmen of the school's opening. Though their attitude toward slacking off provided me more than enough time to think of excuses for not turning my homework in on time, I took it seriously enough to never be in too much trouble and not need to have discussions with my parents. College applications came begrudgingly into my mind because I didn't want to be someone who didn't go to college. I saw what happened to my friends older than me who didn't go to college and now still live at home; all due respect my desire to get as far away from Pennsylvania was all-consuming. My application process went smoothly, I had 5/5 applications I sent out get accepted, and the only limit was debt in the coming future. The search for what to do with my life was uncommonly not difficult; art seemed like the obvious answer. Not a single moment or phase in my life, interests, or personality, in general, didn't scream "queer art student" to everyone around me, myself not to be included in that.  It made sense to me. Every aspect of my decision felt rooted in the exact life I envisioned myself having when finally going off on my home. The girl who pulled my hair resulting in a scolding from my grandmother in first grade, now thirteen years later someone I consider myself closer to than most of my family would be moving there with me, my teenage exploration of love found me in contact with a man I cared for very deeply would be waiting for me, and I would become the New York City dream I had envisioned myself as since the 6th grade. I arrived alone; accompanied by my dad and step-mom and a tearful goodbye to my Mom and friends back home. 

Almost a full four years since the conclusion of my decision process led me to Arizona to pursue a BFA in Fashion. My exploration was prompted by a desire, most definitely driven by an inflated self-image, to stick out in one way or another. I expand my closet, and I post and share what I want others to see because I want who I am regardless of its perception to be noticed as something. This, in contrast to previous statements, I don't believe is driven by ego, but out of a genuine desire to share art, share what I think I am inside because everything that has brought me to this moment in my life has been because of others doing the same. My inspiration in fashion comes from this place in my mind. I want to share, I want to make things that are tiny parts of my experience in art, in sharing, and include others in the process. Nothing makes a person feel better than a compliment on a particularly thoughtful accessory in an outfit, a touch of something someone saw that they wanted others to see in them, and I think that above everything else, that is what makes art have an impact. The ability to relate to an abstract painting, or "lol me"ing* at the progression of Van Gough's self-portraits is not captured in anything better than the passion put into a piece of anything.