“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked me.
He was at least 45. I was 22. He wore a suit and gold watch. I was wearing what my friends called the pocket dress–because you could fold it up and put it in your pocket.
I was also wearing a hot pink jacket and hot pink shoes. He and his friends at the table behind him looked like men with money. “Oh, thanks,” I said and looked down at the floor. “But that’s okay. My friends are waiting for me.”
He said something else, but I didn’t hear it because I was already walking away.
The clingy white dress said things that were not true. I just didn’t realize it until I was stopped by the man with perfect businessman hair and a near empty glass of whiskey.
Sometimes a person compliments my work, and I can’t get away from the feeling that my art is no way to see me at all. At IF+D when the owner introduces me to people as an artist and writer I want to shake my head and leave. You are seeing this, but this is a mistake.
Of course, it is and it isn’t. Like the dress.
Do you feel your work represents you? Does the label writer or artist feel right? Does it make you want to step up or run away?