Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be married to a man who wasn’t an artist. Someone in landscaping, or construction, or who balanced books or developed land (pushing trees out of the way for concrete and glass).
Would he come home, spent and sweaty, his brow open and broad? Would I greet him with something cold in a sweaty glass, and gently suggest that he change into some shorts and mow the lawn? Would he watch a lot of sports? Would I then, have to as well?
I am married to an artist. A focused, brilliant, beautiful artist. I do bring him cold drinks in sweaty glasses, but we have no lawn that is our own to mow. This is fine with us. It leaves us more time to create new things that didn’t exist before. Two artists in one house can mean that moodiness creeps in the corners sometimes, but usually one of us (or the other) breaks the dark clouds away.
I wonder what our son will turn out like. Will he be an artist of some sort, too? So far he likes music. He carries a tune with perfect pitch. Maybe he’ll marry a painter.