Alright. A stereotypical artist is much like a stereotypical hippie. I'm afraid I know this to be true. In fact I've even had people scream in delight when they see my work; "oh! you're *not* just a hippie with a paintbrush!" (insert my pained expression)
This stereotype is correct (enter my day off).
My friend and I workout every morning. I get up at 5.15 and we do over 10 miles at the track. We haven't had a day off in over two weeks...until today, that is, where we both agree to sleep in. Delicious!
I plan to sleep until noon but in fact wake up at 7.30. I roll out of bed and stumble into my studio, warmed by my little space heater and the rising sun. I yawn, stretch, sit my naked butt down to paint and light a stick of incense. I play my music, sing and paint, sing and paint. At 10 I stop and run back to bed, craving company. Unsleepy I simply snuggle quietly and then flick on the TV to watch the first half of 'How To Draw A Bunny'. It is good, I enjoy it, but then craving a freak moment of silence I flick it off and lay around for a bit, thinking. Then I get up again.
Back to painting! It's not going smashingly well, I'm taking my time with it, but it's my day off and I feel gooood. I feel SO GOOD! By now it's early afternoon and I realise...I stink. Well...Maybe I don't stink but I sure need a wash. Iyeee! My hair is *greasy*. If I lick my lips I taste salt. Unfortunately washing for me doesn't involve jumping in the shower. Along with our plumbing downstairs being wonky right now we never turned the gas on when we moved in. In the summer it's fine...I can handle a cold shower. But in the winter? Or *now*? When it's cold? Bleurgh. I think of the effort of boiling up a bath and weigh it with the amount of days I've gone without properly getting clean. Hmmmm. I know what *should* win. But...it isn't winning. I throw on some clothes and go grocery shopping, casting evil glares at the bathroom on my way out.
Toilet Paper. (note: not doc leaves)
I come home.
I go back to my studio.
I dabble with my painting (carefree, not stressfully).
I play musicals and belt out the lyrics I love the most.
I snack on some marinaded tofu I made two days prior.
I download my yoga routine after finally finding it online.
I find a bee in my studio, catch it, take it outside and set it free.
I get back to painting.
People come over for a bit.
I laze around in day-off glee and watch some TV.
Then we order a pizza (for shame!).
I come back to my studio and sing some more, pretend to paint (but don't) and write to some people online.
All is going well until I push my hair back out of my face.
I come to the sinking suspicion that I ought to boil up a bath.
And then I come to the stunning realisation that I have been a greasy-bum-artist, allllll day long.
I can argue, though, that my hot water remains non-existant because I'm trying to survive by painting...a *direct* link from dirt to art. And that's not shameful. It would be nice if it were more tragic or more romantic. But...eh...it's simply life.
My thoughts of bathing are interrupted by the doorbell.
I munch on my vegetarian pieces as I watch the second half of my Ray Johnson doco.
It ends and I come back to my studio.
I debate burning more incense.
I switch my music.
I sing just as loudly.
I try to ignore my greasy hair once more.
I glance at the clock.
How did this happen?
My day off is fading. *wails*
I have to be up at 5.15. *wails louder*
now I have to figure out if I want to boil the kettle to wash the pots so I can boil up the pots to run a bath...or if I want to go to bed the dirty, stinking artist that I am.
"Dear Josephine: I will be arriving home in three days. Don't bathe."
Napoleon would still love me.
*throws hands up in the air*
You know if I shaved my head...it would *still* be artistic...and I wouldn't have to worry about said problem...