I been packing and unpacking over the last 2 months. So awful. My boyfriend and I decided to make the move and save some money, by moving 3 blocks down the street (kind of stupid, I know). People have been asking me why I’ve been so stressed out and I tell them that I am moving, and then they get interested and ask “Where?”, “Brooklyn?”, “Chelsea”, “Soho?”…
All I can say is…”Soo, No….!”
We made the “decision” (and by that I mean sacrifice), to live across the river, and not the East River, the other one; I dare not speak the name. We came to the land of Jersey housewives, and Big Ang look-a-likes; where affluent Asian families drive carelessly down the streets, all just to live in a slightly bigger apartment where we could set up shop in a second bedroom.
My boyfriend is an amazing musician, (check him out on iTunes, his band is The Defcon 2) so not only did we need a place for him to set up his equipment and studio, I needed some space to drape, draw, cut, sew and slave over the life I chose to lead.
So here we are living the life…. Sort of.
However, beyond all that information comes the real point of this story. As I was packing, I found that I have previously packed away pretty much my entire life’s collection of work.. My sketches, my paintings, my clothes, my projects, my life! Everything was strategically placed and balanced in my closet, so that had I actually needed something it was virtually impossible to find or get. I guess this may have been my subconscious way of trying to forget some of my more painful college experiences.
But, its true that time heals most wounds, and I was ready to find out what I had hidden away for the past 2 years. I found myself pulling out almost every drawing and examining every line from my pens, or stroke of my paintbrush. I felt excited. I started trying on the clothing that I had made, taking each piece out of storage and putting it in my own everyday wardrobe. It was good, I was good!
It’s funny, I had spent such a long time at Parsons constantly judging my work, to the point of not even feeling proud of it anymore. And, although I am grateful for my experiences there, after I graduated it left me in such a state of self-depricating behavior, that I couldn’t even find the urge to create anything for a long time.
It took an incredible amount of resilience and stamina to jump back on the train and remember what I was fighting for, myself.
I now look at all the things I create and feel excited. I know there is always going to be criticism from something, or someone, but if I let it tear me down, I’ll have to find a way to remind myself that I’ve got something worth sharing, like I’ll have to move all over again, and go digging through my closet, and I surely don’t think I want to do that any time soon!