Without the turquoise

Have you ever met that fifty-seven year old woman, the self-defined artist who wears chunky jewelry and longish sweaters that are too baggy? The one who frankly needs some style in her haircut? She slouches. And kind of whines. And there’s never any money. Ever.

Maybe she was your high school art teacher. Or maybe she’s the one that has been living in that incredible floor-through for the past thirty years, which over time has become a weird labyrinth that needs to be painted. Instead she’s painting bucking horses. She voted for Hillary because all men are swine.

I’ve always had a visceral reaction against her. It’s arrogant, I know it. But, I’m turning thirty-seven at the end of the month, and I need some models. I don’t want to turn into her. And maybe the twenty-somethings already think I have.

So what are the best hopes for my future? In my mind (and feel free to add):

Marina Abramovic – The rock, the brave artist who is frank and always evolving.

Louise Bourgeois – The kook, sincerely eccentric but so lovable.

Agnes Martin – The inward-turning recluse, graceful and no b.s. (that’s her above.)

Pema Chodron – One breath from enlightenment.