Vanity

Perhaps this would better be cataloged under "Tiffany's Epiphanies" but it appears no one reads that as much as this one, so here I go.

As anyone who knows me, knows, I consider myself an artist. At the least, I am artistic. As a child I would draw at home, for me, didn't matter who saw it. As I got older I doodled and decorated my assignments in class, even drawing comic strips and practicing every small block of free time. I did it for one reason. I enjoyed it. Occasionally a classmate would look over and be impressed, or a teacher would smile instead of scold my lack of interest in his or her subject. I would even cover and hide my creations for fear of criticisms and misunderstandings. But I still continued my passion.

I am in between hobbies now. In case you haven't noticed, I start a new a hobby and become enthralled with it, so much so, I think almost of nothing else but how to progress and experiment in the new medium. The ideas keep me up at night, they motivate through the day, and cause me much pride and sense of accomplishment when completed. Then, while I still have lots of supplies and ideas, I just lose interest. That's where I am now. And while I was contemplating "What now?" I had a jarring epiphany. I'm motivated by attention. I have a painting, in my mind's eye, that I desperately want to bring to physical life. I have started it. It sits in my craft/laundry area and waits for me to come back. I see it. I want to finish it, but I hold myself back, because I don't feel I'd ever want to display it in my home. THAT'S the punch in the gut, for me. When did I become motivated by public approval? I was once the kind of person that did what I wanted because I loved doing it, not because I wanted to be recognized as "good" at it. It isn't the subject of the painting that would be uncomfortable. It's the skill I have, rather, lack to have, that would keep it hidden away.

Perhaps if the previous example was the only evidence I wouldn't be worried, but it's not. Tuesday, I requested my husband drive us from store, to store, to store, so I could purchase something new and "nice" for a wedding reception and following dance that night. My definition of "nice" required sparkles, or shine, form fitting and gorgeous color material. My prayer was answered, despite my sinful, vain, motivation. I wanted, attention. I wanted to be "ooohed" and "ahhhhed" over. Praised and marveled at for my skill of painting my face with make-up, burning my hair with an iron, and draping myself with attractive apparel. Again, I got my wish. I was made to feel like Cinderella. I "cleaned up" nice. Recaptured my youth and gained a compliment from near everyone who spoke to me. I feigned modesty, told my friends about my good fortune, that I found the dress at the Goodwill store, and spent a selfish 45 minutes styling my hair. I played it off as just wanting to play dress-up, but secretly wanting to prove to myself, and others I can still be as gorgeous as before. Before the sleepless nights, the stained clothes. Before, I traded cute for comfort and Cosmo for Family Circle.

So, I'm vain. I think of how to post my work to Facebook before a project is totally finished. I do nothing if I can't imagine getting admired for it in the future. My canvases stay blank until I feel confident enough to create a masterpiece, or at least unfinished until I get over my vanity.