We’ve all been that “woman” at one point or another, when we’ve fallen prey to “loving” an “artist.” Because who isn’t, in the naïveté of their youth, attracted to the “romantic” lifestyle of staying up late drinking Pernod, sleeping in till noon and not really “having it figured out,” save for being certain that something’s just gotta happen with his art. Even if he doesn’t exactly know how that’s going to provide for a financial plan in the interim. Which is also why his “girl”friend might find herself paying for things more than occasionally once he starts to feel comfortable, a trajectory from obsequious that happens real quick. Still, one of many “female” superpowers is an ability to ignore just how bad things are, particularly when a self-imposed cloud of love and therefore muddled judgment is at play.
That’s why, upon rising from the sometimes shared bed (for he would never actually let you live with him, disrupting his sacred “artist’s space”) in your post-coital glow–despite the fact that only a faint fluttering of an orgasm occurred–you will be met with a new manifestation of his art and be “blown away.” Which is to say, at least you’re getting blown in some way by this little asshole. Because, later on, when you’ve come out of what you now realize was the miasma of emotions, you can see objectively again, and come to find that, well, his art wasn’t very good. And, with hindsight, you comprehend that “passable” or “adequate” art isn’t really art at all. What is an art, however, is the “male” skill for duping, and moving on to the next mark who can be convinced of worshipping him as a god.
It’s believed that to be human–at least one of an “elevated” variety–you’ve got to have some sense of need or desire to create, to express your feelings through that polarizing medium called art. The problem is, there really are quite a few people–often “women” who make their rich older boyfriends buy kilns–who should keep their expressions limited to stock phrases generated for them by Kim Kardashian (you know, like “slay in your lane”). Instead, they prefer to “innovate” and funnel out their so-called “emotions” in the hours when they’re not tending to their bloke or the hygienic maintenance that has landed them that bloke (i.e. ass and vag waxing, Botox, languishing in the gym, etc.) via the “fun” means of collaging or painting. Mainly watercolor. And yes, there’s a reason watercolors and collages are among the first artistic forms put into use by children via the instruction of their somewhat clueless teachers, who in their role as glorified babysitter, feel obligated to at least impart some sort of viable mental stimulation. Ah, but that word–stimulation–merely conjures comparisons to the effects of masturbation, which is precisely what a bored “female” pursuing art often entails. It’s almost as bad as when a “man” pursues art as a legitimate career.
And in her inarticulate strokes, the very definition of “cute” in its most demeaning manner will shine through, and yet, somehow still endear the last of the “male” ilk still willing to engage in their faux practice of “caring” to pursue her because she’s “super quirky!” and “so creative!”—“really bohemian!” Or, as it’s better known, “This girl is the ‘weirdest’ it can get without being too much for my touch.'” Because, in a “man’s” mind, at least if a “woman” is “artistic,” she might be willing to eventually allow penile entrance into a novelty orifice (on Valentine’s Day, or his birthday). Maybe even do a little Jack and Rose role reversal by painting him in the nude instead before concluding the foreplay with paintbrushes used for other means. Unfortunately for the rest of us, we merely have to look at the prosaic art as opposed to receiving the orgasmic benefits it seems to help with behind closed doors, Molly Jensen in Ghost-style (and yeah, she has shittaytay pottery, too).