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The Art of Being a Social Faux Pas

Hi. My name is Nancy and I'm artistically challenged.

Hi, Nancy

1. I stood on the counters and arranged the decorations above the cupboards while my husband dictated where to move them and at what angle.
2. I earned straight A's in every class in 7th grade except Intro. to Art. I begged and cried until Mrs. Sandofsky pitied me and changed my D+ to a C-.
3. I don't scrapbook. My pictures sit in an ever growing pile of photos and CDs, completely unorganized.
4. One of my more mortifying experiences occurred over a piece of art.

I hesitate to tell this story but in order to fully embrace who I am, I feel I must cleanse my bright, polka dot, striped, and absolutely non-color-coordinated soul.

In an effort to get to know the congregation, the recently appointed bishop and his wife decided to throw small dinner parties at their house. To protect the innocent, I will refer to the bishop's wife as "K." This also protects the author if she accidentally spells it out - Kay.

K. made multiple attempts in inviting my husband and I over for a civilized dinner party. The very thought made me tremble with joy; a meal without anybody purposely showing me their chewed food, listening to chomps, burps, and complaints, and one without once dictating a small person to "sit down." An evening of etiquette bliss!

But then they invited me.

K. had to make multiple invitations because I was in the throes of throwing up hyperemesis. Do not confuse this condition with the casual bout of morning sickness. This is the I-am-so-miserable-I-want-to-die sickness accompanied with the realization that I had not needed to sit on a toilet in three days. Can you imagine what a damper regurgitation might put on a dinner party? Civilized dinner party, no less.

After carefully taking steroids to stave off my new-found anorexia and politely requesting the seat closest to the toilet, I accepted the incredibly generous offer.

We arrived on time, my face flushed with my most recent worship of the porcelain god but appropriately drugged and feeling 100% exhausted but excited about dinner with grown-ups. We sat in the living room and visited with the other couples. One of the hosts' children had escaped from the dungeon basement and attempted polite society. I made a comment about the beautiful canvas of abstract art in water colors hanging above the stairway. K. laughed and told me she bought the canvas, stripped her three boys to their skivvies, handed them paint and voila! art was created. The boy, who was about 8 at the time, said something about a painting that was quite expensive. His parents quickly shushed him and corrected that he was talking about the "Emerson." He was promptly excused.

Dinner was then served in the dining room. Not only did they have a dining room, but they used real china, used color coordinating tablecloth, placemats, and napkins (none containing paper or plastic) and, get this, all of their silverware matched!

As promised, I got the chair closest to the toilet (just in case) which also put me closest to the bishop which put me on my best behavior. I carefully avoided subjects that might be dicey like murder, adultery, pride, and Satan. I steered around my usual language and hobbies (throwing up and potty training) which then left me with absolutely nothing to say. This, in turn, made the dinner party even more of a success.

Dessert served, small talk died out, we got our coats and were headed out the door when I noticed the smaller canvas with abstract art hanging in the entry. By this time, my nausea had returned and my energy level was down to nearly zero. But I thought I could muster one more polite comment.

"Is this art?"

The question was sincere. The words were all wrong. "Emerson" had signed the piece in the bottom right corner. The expensive painting the boy had been discussing earlier.

I could see the words hovering in the air. I wanted so badly to grab them back and hide them under my coat. My husband wanted to grab them back and shove them back into my throat. I would have only thrown them up again, anyway.

I considered clarifying. What I meant to say was, "I am truly an idiot and I can't tell a masterpiece from a canvas painted by nearly naked boys. What category is this picture?" That sounded pretty stupid to my ears, too. The only graceful thing to do at that point was walk out with my foot securely wedged into mouth. I appreciated the grace of the hostess who breezed past the comment and thanked us all for coming.

I have roamed the galleries at The Louvre in Paris. The notes I took read something like this:
  • The Mona Lisa looks like a man
  • Venus de Milo needs arms and clothes
  • King David gave up everything for that Bathsheba?
  • Why are there so many pictures of the crucifixion?
  • I don't get it
  • No way (words muttered while gazing upon a certain statue in Florence, Italy)
In other words, my artistic flair and vocabulary is equivalent to an 8th grade boy.

If you happen across an AA meeting (artistically challenged anonymous) meeting, please let me know. I'm ready to move through the 12 steps to enjoy a more cultivated and aesthetic life. I would also like my husband to feel safe to take me out in public again. It's been 5 years.

Comments

  1. Hey-no worries... art shmart. It takes a certain kind to enjoying knowing all the ins and outs. I do some art like drawing and painting and I couldn't tell you how many times I slept through art history. I honestly, honestly couldn't give two craps about the importance of cave painting to where we are today.. and I think "expressing yourself" through art is stupid.. I probably DON'T wanna hear what they have to say.

    .. but they had a real Emerson??






    Who is that?

    ReplyDelete
  2. I like art and I have never heard of Emerson. I googled it out of curiosity. Do they mean Linda Emerson, out of Salt Lake? Is there another Emerson artist we should know about? I love walking through the abstract art in a gallery. I sit there and think, 'my three year old could do this'.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Oh bahahahahaha! You prefer the art of naked boys to classic artists. I love it, and I think I love you even more now!

    ReplyDelete
  4. This is so funny! I would have said the same thing. I can appreciate someone else's art, but I am hugely unartistic.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Artistry is so overrated. I feel much more comfortable with someone who is a little askew

    ReplyDelete
  6. LOL - no worries - I wouldn't have known the difference either - not that, that should make you feel any better though - HA!! Seriously, thanks for the humorous story. Hope you're feeling much better today! Hugs, Trac~:o)

    ReplyDelete
  7. I have only a slight crafty gene but I am not the least bit artistic. I find that all revered "art" looks like they gave the brush to a chimp.

    ReplyDelete
  8. A few years ago I was hosting Thanksgiving with an art dealer friend at his house, and doing a little pre-party clean up. He stopped me just as I was attempting to use some 409 on a Damien Hirst sculpture.

    Even now, if I bring up "The 409 Incident" he has a mini-stroke.

    Is this art? And is this art really worth more than the house we're standing in? (Just another reason to give up cleaning.)

    ReplyDelete
  9. Anna lies. She is an amazing artist. Should do it for a living.

    ReplyDelete
  10. I have no appreciation for art. I have no craft genes in me.

    I can't draw a straight line with a ruler, or cut a straight line to save my life.

    Even my doodles have no depth or perspective.

    I am even a Wilson cake decorating class dropout.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Beauty IS in the eye of the beholder. Great things about friends is that they will want to know what you LIKE not what society expects, trains and socially forces us to appreciate.

    How precious are those who like us for who we are ..... even in our pooping, regurgitating and air releasing bodies.

    ReplyDelete
  12. Hmm. . . my name seems similarly close to K. Could that be me??? Here's the rest of the story. I had my kids do some art for my new home. A few people in the ward had come over and been somewhat snotty about our art. So, my quick-thinking and somewhat obnoxious new-bishop husband informed one of the lovely ladies that it was a Louise Emerson. (Here it is helpful to understand that my middle name is Louise and Parker's middle name is Emerson.) Parker, who shares his parents' odd sense of humor, latched right on to that story and proceeded to further the tale.
    I apologize for you thinking you were so bad those many years ago! I think you are hysterically funny and maybe just a little too honest for your own good!

    ReplyDelete

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