This is us at our wedding, in 2000 and this is my husband, my muse and my rock, Chuck.
I think that to be an artist, one has to have that irresistible urge to create. That urge also extends to writers, poets, dancers and those who act. We all have a driving force pushing us onward. Included in that driving force is a component that often causes us to ignore the world around us, as we focus on the project at hand.
I find that as an artist, I make small sacrifices that pale next to the sacrifices that my husband makes for me to do what I do.
He has to put up with coming home to a wife that if I’m involved, I don’t hear much of what he says. He finds himself moving projects around so he can sit down. Then there’s the shows were he goes with me and spends his time sitting there while I schmooze with the hopefully going to buy art collectors.
When I think of small sacrifices, I think of my husband and I think of the spouses/partners of the other artists I know, and I have to give kudos to them. They put up with our crap, with our neglect and they still support us. We are often late, we are often full of false promises (we really meant them at the time) that we often don’t keep because that art project is in the works.
We are often sensitive, we are often full of irrational worry about our work and how others will receive it, and yet, they still keep loving us.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to my husband, and to the rest of you, that make sure we come in and have some food every now and again. He brings my meds, he reminds me that I cannot go nonstop or I’ll hurt myself. He bandages the cuts I get from the glass.
This is what I have to say to him:
Thank you for not rolling your eyes where I can see it when I’m feeling too sensitive about my work; thanks for the hug, as well. Thanks for the honest critique, when I just cannot see why the damned thing isn’t working. Thank you for the art you carry, for the racks you put together, for the canopy you erect for me. Thank you, my love, for just being you.
I cannot imagine my life without him. I know how Dali felt about Galla. I feel that way about my husband.