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New Year, Same Fatigue
The year’s barely begun but it’s okay if you’re already exhausted.
This time last year I was signing up for an art class. It was my 2020 New Year’s resolution and money towards the tuition was the only thing I’d floated to my parents during their annual Gift-Idea-Reconnaissance-Mission.
My goal for 2020 was to become a visual artist. My dad was a cartoonist but had never gotten around to sharing that gene with me or any of my siblings. Writing is my chosen medium because a pen feels like the instrument I am least likely to embarrass myself with — but then again, this essay isn’t even halfway finished so that may change. The day is young.
So early one morning in late January, I drove to Barnsdall Art Park — cash in hand — ready to sign up for a class in Folk Art, which seemed like a good place to start for someone who enjoys collaging and cannot draw perspective. The class was every Tuesday and Thursday, 6PM to 8PM.
A quarter into the Tuesdays and Thursdays, there were whispers of the virus, but it was shh-shh’ed out of the room as quickly as it came in. It won’t make it here we said, as if the virus couldn’t drive or was waiting on Los Angeles’ notoriously unreliable public transit.
