awareness

“Man is a storytelling animal.”

Joseph Campbell after decades of research, found a narrative, a common thread in the stories told by every culture across every continent in the world.

The Hero’s Journey.

There are twelve stages but here is my abridged version.

In short, the hero answers a call to adventure after first refusing to do so due to fear, feelings of unworthiness, or because he was just able to score tickets to Hamilton.

Shenanigans ensue.

There are mentors and ogres and even some magic. Parking spots appear. Deadlines are met.

Then it all falls to shit and he’s convinced he’s gonna die.

After crawling around on his hands and knees, bawling like a little baby, he finally, finally, pulls up his big-boy pants and finds redemption. He realizes that HE was the only obstacle standing in the way of his own success.

He takes a shower, shaves, downs a cold brewski and gathers around anyone who will listen—to tell his fuckin’ story.

“Okay”, he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice you know, for dramatic effect. “I’ve gotta tell ya about this thing that happened to me.” And we all lean in closer to listen.

And you know why? Because EVERYONE can relate!
Because we’ve all been there and we’re dyin’ to compare notes.

“Oh, man. You too?” we say with a knowing nod of the head and maybe even a slap on the back.

Since the beginning of time, we tell our stories because want to help others. We crave connection. We want to let people know that they’re not alone in their seat-of-the-pants journey around this third planet from the Sun.

It’s why Joseph Campbell did it. It’s why Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, and Jason Silva do it.

And it’s most certainly why I show up here every day.

What story are you dying to tell?

Love you,
Carry on,
xox

“We have perfected the attitude of worry. If we don’t have something to worry about, that worries us.”

—Michele Longo O’Donnell

Stress is a thug and a thief. It’s a thug because it has such little regard for our well-being, and a thief because it absconds with BIG chunks our time. It adds up. Stress, that jerk, has looted months, if not years, of accumulated hours from my life. So, I have no problem giving stress the finger, whenever I can. I take great glee in pissing it off.
Here are the Top Ten things that piss stress off. Practice them wisely—and often.

1) Rest. Stress HATES when we’re well rested. We make better decisions, we’re on our game and less likely to muck things up. Naps, long weekends and vacations are its Kryptonite.

2) A Sense of Humor/Laughing. Have you ever tried to laugh while completely stressed out? A real, deep belly laugh? It’s almost impossible. It’s akin to keeping your eyes open when you sneeze. The two CANNOT coexist.

3) Asking for help. Stress can’t stand it when we realize our limitations, delegate and ask for help. It needs a frazzled, overextended, perfectionist, control freak as a host. Calling in the Cavalry BEFORE you’ve reached your wit’s end sends stress the silent Jedi signal: This is not the droid you’re looking for.

4) Believing you have enough. If you believe you have enough time, money, resources, help and happiness, you will be invisible to stress. It will pass your house and go torment your neighbors.

5) Exercise. Yes, it is possible to outrun stress. You can outrun it on the treadmill, or with the dogs at the park. Once that heart rate goes up and those endorphins kick in, stress will NOT be able to keep up. Stress carb loads, always goes for seconds, eats peanut butter out of the jar with a serving spoon, and parks illegally in the handicapped space, so it never has to walk far. Stress hates a fit body and a clear head.

6) Organization. When you’re well organized, meaning, you know where everything is, and can easily find it, stress has a shit fit. How can it fuck with you and mess with your head, if you can immediately come up with your passport, keys, glasses, insurance papers, rent check, stamps, cat nail clipper and both of the same black sandals?

7) Behaving like a grown up. Stress despises adult behavior. Stress is counting on us to NEVER grow up. It adores a good temper tantrum and will do everything in its power to keep us from getting our ducks in a row. As a matter of fact, it is heavily invested in the prospect of us not saving for retirement, avoiding responsibility, making uninformed decisions and never planning for the future.

8) Self-care. THIS pisses off stress almost more than anything. Getting a massage, doing yoga and meditating. Those are three of its mortal enemies. It throws its hands up, shakes its head and walks away in defeat. It can’t take hold of a peaceful mind.

9) Not caring what other people think. Once you drop that bad habit, stress will have to go find another victim. Don’t feel bad for a second. There are millions.

10) Awareness. Stress has a full-on hissy-fit when you call it out. It can’t stand when you know its name or what it looks like. It would rather stay anonymous, in one of its many disguises. As a headache, an ulcer, colitis, hives, over eating, over spending, depression, and anxiety.

I told you, it’s a thug.
It knows, that once you know why it’s there, it’s days are numbered.

Can you think of more ways to piss off stress? Tell me what you do, I’d LOVE to hear some comments!

Carry on,
Xox

Hi guys,
I have a few friends out there in the cold, hard, dating world so I was looking for some stories about dating. I wrote this a few years back and all I want to make sure you know is this:
1) I am in no way advocating lowering your standards.
2) Dating sucks unless you find a way to make it fun.
3) Compromise is not a dirty word—in my opinion, it is the magic component of relationship longevity.

Not submission. Not rolling over. Compromise.

Carry on,
xox

COM.PRO.MISE

ˈkämprəˌmīz/
noun
1) Settle a dispute by mutual concession. (In my opinion, this is ABSOLUTELY the cornerstone of a happy relationship. Pick your battles, people)

synonyms: meet each other halfway, come to an understanding, make a deal, make concessions, find a happy medium, strike a balance; give and take.
“we compromised” (yes, yes, yes, yes and yes!)
(And my personal favorite, agree to disagree, Relax! we’re not attached at the hip)

2) Accept standards that are lower than is desired.
(What? No! ABSOLUTELY NOT That is NOT what it means to compromise. No wonder people are still single. Jeez)

My sweet darling, husband and I are celebrating our thirteenth wedding anniversary today.

We met and fell in love late in life. I was 42. He was 47.

He is a wonderful man, but he is a self-described curmudgeon.
He has a giant heart, surrounded by a hard, opinionated, veneer…wrapped in bacon.

When a friend asked me today what the difference was between people who marry late and the people who never marry at all…I said:compromise.

Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, sit down and hear me out.

I think the people who wait and wait and then never find the “right person”, believe that the second definition is true.

I did for a while. Okay, years. Make that decades. I thought compromise meant I had to lower my standards.

“No way! I will not! I want what I want, and I will not rest until I have dated every guy in LA (maybe it just felt like it) to find the man of my dreams. He must be perfect in EVERY way.”

Good luck with that Janet.

And like the amazingly flexible person that I was (not); I wanted my life to stay exactly the same…except exponentially better.

More love, more travel, more money, definitely more sex, more friends, more, more, more, more, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I was willing to give up…nothing.

“GIVE UP something to be with a man? Nope, if that’s the case, then he’s just not the right guy for me.”

My husband is a contractor, and he espouses his Triangle Theory and assures all his clients that THIS is the way things work in the world. It goes like this:

Money + Time + Quality
When building something, you can only have two out of the three.
Quality is not cheap.
Fast is not cheap.
Quality takes time and costs money.

Cutting corners either in cost or time spent, sacrifices quality.
It is impossible to get all three.

Along the way, I slowly and clumsily learned this lesson.
Compromise became my co-pilot.
Was everything on my list REALLY non-negotiable?

Here’s my triangle from back in the day.

Gorgeous, and artsy = unemployed.
Rich and smart = hooker fucker
Rat faced but kind = the fall-back guy you date in between rich and smart; gorgeous and artsy.

Maybe you can’t can’t get the Prince Charming trifecta but you can get damn close, and that’s okay.
It’s NOT settling. It’s being a grown up and realistic.
Just like I’m realistic, acknowledging that I’m no prize.
I’m only two out of three, and that’s okay (can you guess which?)

Is it a compromise if your two out of three match your beloveds?
I think not.

Carry on, know that there is someone out there for you.
Do you want to be right…or happy?
Stop looking for perfect.
It’s highly overrated.
And expensive.

Love, love,
Xox

“I don’t know.”

Probably the scariest words this side of “It doesn’t look good” and “We have to talk.”

And why is that?

Maybe because from the earliest age we are asked, no, make that we are expected to know EVERYTHING.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Who invented Velcro?

What do I want for lunch every day?

Where should I go to college?

What’s my major?

Do I want coleslaw or fries with that?

What is love?

Is there a God?

Where do I want to work?

Who do I want to marry?

Do I want children? How many? Boys or girls?

What state do I want to live in and which neighborhood?

Am I going to work or be a stay-at-home parent?

Do these jeans make my butt look big?

Should I stay or should I go?

How will I know when to leave?

Should I buy or rent?

How much do I need for retirement?

When are you too old to wear a bikini?

Donut or green juice?

Burial or cremation?

Holy crap! The sheer volume of questions we’re supposed to know the answer to is mind-boggling! And the fact that we come to a decision on most is commendable. We were taught well.

Consider my life. I’m no different from you. Not knowing what I wanted had NEVER occurred to me. I learned that saying I don’t know was unacceptable. It wasn’t one of the choices. There was no plan C. No other box to check. When I didn’t know the answer, I winged it. I made shit up. I turned at the fork in the road. I didn’t stand there with a map or spend time consulting my GPS. I had a five-year plan. I made a decision and dealt with the consequences because acting like I didn’t know which way to go, which most of the time I didn’t, seemed like the bigger risk.

But as I’ve gotten older and presumably wiser, I’ve discovered:
1. Not having children was the right decision for me (whew!)
2. The only woman who can get away with wearing a bikini after sixty is Helen Mirren.
3. It’s okay to say “I don’t know”.

Thinking I had to have all the answers started to feel like prison to me. It left no room for chance, spontaneity or dare I say—magic.
I slowly discovered that saying I don’t know opened the door a crack allowing a myriad of possibilities to flood in.
I don’t know went from feeling shameful to liberating. It became my Get Out Of Jail Free Card.

I throw “I don’t know” around like confetti. I aim to live a more inspired life. I no longer feel the need to know the end-game. I’ve pretty much taken my hands off the wheel and let a force that is much more daring, interesting and magical take control of my life and I’ve got to warn you IF you decide to go this route—buckle up—you’re in for one hell of a ride!

Carry on,
xox

You know those things you do in your life that seem like a good idea at the time?

How when you’re young you feel as if you have all the time in the world to change them if they turn out to be nothing more than a bad habit?

Like jaywalking, talking with your mouth full, or unprotected sex?

I smoked cigarettes. Not all the time. Just socially. At parties mostly, and clubs, or with my roommate at the Formica dining table we had in the kitchen of the little rental we shared with my sister, who did not partake in this most unhealthy of habits. We kept a pack of Virginia Slims in the freezer with booze and a little bit of ice. Two liberated young women, beating the odds in a man’s world — Baby, we’d come a long way! Sexy, right?

Meh…now I keep coffee in my freezer. And an unopened bottle of Vodka. And a non-GMO corn crust pizza.
That’s almost-sixty-sexy.
I know. Meh…anyway…

Gossip was served in that shitty little kitchen most mornings and evenings and nothing goes better with gossip than a cigarette. They are the Batman and Robin of vices. In my opinion, you cannot have one without the other. Even now, when I smell cigarette smoke I want to divulge something dishy.

I want to speculate on Tom Cruises’ sexuality or get the dirt on Melania Trump. Is she really a fembot?

I suppose I should also designate gossiping as a bad habit. I thought I did that several decades ago but this talk of cigarettes and vices has opened Pandora’s Box—or a time machine—and inside is a Star Magazine and a pack of Virginia Slims.

This all changed for me the minute a guy told me I smelled like an ashtray. I’m lying. No man ever said that to me. They weren’t stupid, they wanted to get laid.

In my twenties, at parties, and in clubs the smoke was so thick that everybody smelled like an ashtray. Looking back I’m convinced most ashtrays actually smelled better than my thick, curly hair which absorbed all the bad breath, BO, eighties music, and smoke within a ten block radius. That transferred to my clothes, then my car and finally to my pillow. After awhile (several years), when I’d wake up and all of those smells would hit my nose in the first few seconds of consciousness—I’d want to ask—are Angelina Jolie’s lips real?— no, seriously, I’d want to puke.

There comes a time, (thirty) when you ask yourself: Is this the woman I thought I’d become? At least I did that. And I came up short.

I was letting a man emotionally get the better of me. How was that okay?
I was dabbling. I wasn’t serious about much of anything.
I was jaywalking, talking with my mouth full, and smoking, gossiping and apparently lying.
I was having protected sex. So, one point for Janet.

All of that seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I was completely unconscious. I had no idea who I was or who I wanted to become.

When, on the five-millionth smelly pillow morning, it finally dawned on me. I need to get my shit together. I need to figure out where I’m headed, who I want to be, and how that person behaves. And good lord, I need a shower.

I’d love to say it all happened overnight, easy-peasy-Parchesi, but I’d be lying (and that’s prohibited), it was progressive. And messy. It took focus, intention, and tons of introspection. In other words, it took decades to craft the ADULT woman I wanted to be and for starters, she wasn’t a smoker.

A Small Confession: I still miss smoking.

The reason this came up for me was the fact that now, at almost sixty, I’ve begun to craft what kind of “older” woman I want to portray. Do I continue to eat whatever I want and put elastic in all of my pants? Do I forgo red lipstick because it spreads all over my face like Heath Ledger’s Joker? Do I succumb to sensible shoes?

Luckily, because I’ve done this before I know the work that lies ahead of me—and I’m exhausted already!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Carry on,
xox

*This post is from a couple of years ago, but it is forever intertwined with our wedding anniversary, so I can never forget. I don’t think we should.
xox

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is a trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, kind of dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines, and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be the middle of the night. How rude!

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time, I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started to ring again.

At that same instant so did my husband’s phone charging next to him on the nightstand.  Then the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. It became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”. He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open only to listen to my best friend Jen, mumbling and weeping. At the same exact moment, we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. This must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed. I know I screamed. A movie scream.

Everyone we loved was calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
Because that’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, laughing, toasting and celebrating love…now they were crying and asking me, Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion disaster film.

I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement:
“I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he yelled, sitting up straight on his knees.
I was screaming and shaking, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

Time stopped. The planet shifted, and in my mind, that was the moment it happened. There will always be the world before 9/11—and after.

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me that Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life. The pilot had directed them all to run as fast as they could, away from the terminals and the airport.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!

No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky and confused thwarted travelers.

Many of the women had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.

How far would they run?

How far was far enough?

Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.

If you had told me a place—I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into that perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I went to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event, and the later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us both into a kind of numb stupor—so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was a ghost town. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs. Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am,” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I started to feel a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgment we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year-old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler somehow, like as a country we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life, they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

https://youtu.be/IIxaVNs6c6U

I love this so much I can’t breathe! So, of course, I had to share it with you.

It’s not that long! I can hear you. Quit complaining! Besides, it’s the weekend.

Enjoy!
xox

This is a shit story. It broke me. It shattered me into a thousand little pieces. But it was the catalyst for my complete reinvention—so… thank you.

This is the best part of the story. The part I love to tell. The “miracle in the mess” so to speak. And it happened seven years ago today!

I’d love to say I stayed in the energy of that miracle and was able to ride the wave of hope, but I didn’t. I fell apart. It was ugly.
This was a sign. But I couldn’t see my way clear of the disaster.
Oh, well, lesson learned. Lessons learned. Many, many, lessons and I’m so much the better for them. Actually, I’m a completely different person. Ask my husband.
Anyhow, enjoy this flashback and appreciate all of the miracles that show up in your darkest hours. I do. Now.
Carry on,
xox

The second miracle occurred during cleanup.
We were about four days in.
The mud had been cleaned up, but the floors, walls, windows and merchandise were still covered with a layer of toxic, smelly slime.

We covered our faces with those cloth masks and plugged on.
Oh yeah, did I mention it was over 100 degrees!

This was the day I was told that the walls of the building had to be cut open up to 5 feet in order to air them out and avoid the dreaded black mold. I don’t know why that hit me so hard, but it did. I walked outside, sat on some steps across the parking lot, and cried while a Sawzall proceeded to systematically carve up my beautiful little store.

This felt serious…and profoundly sad.

Gary (my insurance advocate), came outside and put his arm around me as we sat silently watching the carnage. When he finally spoke, he asked me if I wanted to go in and box things up, the things that hadn’t gotten wet in the bathroom storage closets. Since the walls would be wide open, someone could potentially get inside and help themselves to whatever was left behind, so he gently suggested I go take a look.

I declined. He insisted. (I think about this all the time, you’ll see why in a minute.)

I think he also just wanted to keep me busy so he didn’t have to look at my big, sad and soggy face.

Since the electricity had been turned off, the bathroom was pitch dark as I poked around in the back closets with a garbage bag, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A generator and the Sawzall wailed away.  It felt weird to me to be salvaging Windex, paper towels, and toilet cleaner.

It occurred to me I could just leave it for the salvage crew. What difference did any of this stuff make now?
I was numb, just going through the motions, trying not to feel too much.

Tucked in the back of a shelf was a box of Tampons with the top torn off. All my good customers knew it was there. Periodically, I would bring a handful from home to refill it. (All you women reading this know what I’m talking about.)
There were several left in the box, so I tucked them into my pocket tossing the empty box in the large, green garbage bag.
But as it flew on its way into the bag, I could HEAR that it wasn’t empty.

There was something heavy sliding around the bottom of the box as it hurtled toward the trash.

Blindly, I reached inside, felt something cool and smooth, and pulled out the expensive diamond watch my husband had given me for our 5th anniversary! Was this some kind of a joke?

The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I stared at my missing watch, there alone in the dark. I started to shake. Violently. Then I started to scream. Loudly!

“Myyyyyy Waaaaaatch!” I screamed as I scrambled towards daylight.  All the workers stopped and stared at the screaming woman. “Ohhhh myyyy gawwwwwd! Are you fucking kidding me?!” I was screaming at the top of my lungs, sweating profusely in the heat. My hair was flying out of its rubber band and I had a mask over my face which muffled my words. The entire get-up morphed me into some kind of crazed, incoherent germaphobe. Gary looked at me, horrified.

Here’s the thing you guys. That watch had been “missing” for over 2 years. My husband had just recently mentioned how disappointed he was that I hadn’t found it yet. I felt terrible. We both knew I wasn’t someone who lost my jewelry. In my previous life as a jeweler, I had worn the watch a lot but since opening the store, it seemed too fancy, and I only took it out of the safe for special occasions.

I NEVER wore it to the store. EVER.
One day I had gone into the safe to get it…and it was gone.

Okay. Did I mention I found the watch on September 9th?
Our anniversary is September 9th.

The missing watch had mysteriously appeared after 2 years on a sad but significant day—in the MOST impossible place imaginable.
It was a sign.
Don’t lose hope.
Miracles occur.

I finally stopped screaming long enough to dial my phone. I couldn’t call my husband fast enough.

XoxJanet

This post is almost three years old and I must say…I suck less. How’s that?
If you are someone who is able to easily set their value, without any industry standards to set the bar, please share your bad-ass wisdom here.
If I ever meet you I will kiss you on the lips.
xox

Once upon a time, when I had my store, a lot of people referred to it as a gallery, and I suppose it was, in the looseiest, gooseiest sense of the word.

I thought it would be a cool idea to feature up-and-coming local artists, and display their work alongside all of the folk-art, well-worn wood, and vintage doodads.

Every three or four months, I would send out postcards, and invite friends and clients to an art “opening” with decent wine, fancy toothpick skewered cheese and super-groovy music (usually the artist’s playlist, so, yeah, way groovier than my snoozy Spotify mix.)

One particularly talented artist whose style was very similar to Jean-Michel Basquiat came close to selling out his entire show on opening night, he had become that popular! I took a chance because I saw something special in his work, and lo and behold, so did a shit-ton of other people!

It was the most money he’d EVER made from his art. EVER! Financial validation. Damn! What a thrill!

You see, when I had my meet and greet with the artists, prior to scheduling a show, each and every one of them had NO idea what to charge for their work. They had even less of a clue as to what their costs had been in time and materials. They stared at me like I was explaining Quantum String Theory when I inquired about their time expenditure.

“How much time did this piece take?” I’d ask. “And what is your time worth?”
They had no freaking idea! None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
They kept no receipts at all. No record of what was spent on framing, or paint, or clay, or brushes, and as for time? Well, time just disappeared as they worked…so that was that.

Really? Huh. Okay… I soon determined that was the sign of a good artist—but a lousy business person.

Seems you can’t have both in the same body, except for Damien Hirst.
He is an example of someone with both mad business and marketing skills along with talent, and that has driven his prices well into the six figures.

Everyone else has a more right-brain mentality. “Don’t bother me with the real world. I just want to create, I don’t want to keep a spreadsheet.”

If you become too practical, you’ll cut off your connection to the Muse.

Now, I totally get it!

It seems it is virtually impossible to balance your checkbook and paint a masterpiece.
I think it’s a right-brain, left-brain thing. (Disclaimer: I’m not a brain surgeon, I just play one on TV).

It’s a lot like studying theory and technique. It can be the kiss of death. If you get TOO polished all your individuality goes flying out the window. My advice? Keep the tools that work and discard the rest. (Disclaimer: I do NOT have an MFA. Obviously!)

It’s often the creations made from breaking the rules that resonate the most with people.

What I must admit I have a knack for is looking at something and determining its value. The more unique the better!

Art can be tough. It’s purely subjective. Appreciation lies in the eye of the beholder. Nevertheless, every artist I featured had been in other small galleries around town, and I always got them double or triple their previous prices. It was always hardest in the beginning and then once things sold, their “value” was established.

That’s what gallery owners do, they help establish a value.

Now that I’m no longer involved in my previous “field of expertise” I’m noticing that I have the exact same problem my oh, so talented artists did.

Determining your own value? Fuck. It’s haaaaard.

So, you can imagine my chagrin as I added my name to that long list.
Now I’m a WE.
WE don’t know how to set our value,
or WE have a number in mind but don’t have the balls to ask for it.
WE stare blankly into space when asked what WE think our time is worth.

Damn, I used to know! Without hesitation! I didn’t have a Masters in Art History or a Harvard business degree. I just knew what I liked, and if I liked it, I knew other people would too.

That’s it! That’s the formula. It’s always the same.

Value is set by what someone will give you as an exchange for the “service” provided—and it’s based on how it makes them feel.

I’m getting warmer…
Carry on,
Xox

“We are here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don’t know.”
~W.H. Auden

Mixed messages. Crossed signals. Conflicting desires. Two completely separate intentions.

I do that. A lot.

I bake delectable goodies when I’m on a diet.
I wish for solitude in a crowd…and vice-versa.
I look at larger homes as I downsize my life.
I swing for the fences and then quiver with self-doubt under the bed.

I want to sleep, write, eat, accept my Academy Award, talk and poop all in the same night.

I send out my mixed messages to the universe and then I wonder why I get shit.

But who doesn’t do that, right?

All of this shit has lead me to a new habit of self-examination, because, well, because life was getting messy. And I’ve got to tell you, I do not function well ankle deep in What the hell just happened?

Poop can be a catalyst. It certainly has been for me.

When I can’t make head’s or tails out of the shit-storm that is my life, I stop and ask myself: What were your intentions? And inevitably, without fail, I realize in retrospect (always in retrospect goddammit), that they were confused, mixed.

In other words, a sleeping pill and a laxative—at the same time.

So, next time you’re at a crossroads and it’s time to make a decision, ask yourself: Do you want to sleep, or poop?

Carry on,
xox

“If you could kick the person in the pants who was responsible for most of your trouble, you wouldn’t sit for a month.”
~Theadore Roosevelt