I'll never have a particularly strong ego. I can be proud, I can be cheerful, I can be intuitive, but I'll always struggle with my own self worth. Fortunately I can fall back on faking it and charm, most of the time.
To quote Lyn Slater's book How to be Old, "I find the spotlight absolutely terrifying and distinctly unpleasant." Unquote. But regret is best when its someone else's, and Risk can be it's own reward, so here I am. I want to look Risk straight in the face these days, confront it, annoy it, and push it around a bit-- because I'm very aware that my time left on this earth is limited. Some of you will roll your eyes but having turned 60, I'm feeling my age.
The decorated cars-- artcars-- I have driven over the years are another mode of creative visibility. (Leaving aside for now the carbon footprint.) The cars I decorate are the equivalent of clothes that I modify and wear to be seen in. Maybe we are not all clothing fanatics, or car fanatics, but all of us, I think, want to be seen. We are a social species. We want to be witnessed. We want to be remembered.
I'm no celebrity but I'm aware of an interesting downside to this need for recognition that I have. There's a story I heard about an acquaintance who saw David Suzuki waiting in an airport-- and went over to speak to him. Mr Suzuki gave him a firm brush off; he was not in the mood to be famous at that moment. On some level I totally get this. When you drive a wild car to the grocery store, or the gas station, sometimes all you want is a carton of orange juice, not an over-eager fan telling you how very much she really thinks you're an artist, like its almost a plea. I try to be kind, but I often feel like David Suzuki. I don't mean to sound unappreciative. And maybe it is confusing! Generally I don't care. Sometimes I want to be more invisible than its reasonable to expect driving a car with a skateboard and a toy aircraft carrier task force on the roof. And yet this absurd craving for acknowledgement goes on.
Everyone says for you not to chase fame. Do what you love, and allow the universe to respond. And that is true, obviously. Sometimes I make an impact that is more than just someone telling me that I'm an artist. Sometimes people outright cheer-- one kid on a skateboard, (youth personified or so it seemed to me) told my that I have a Kickass Car. That to me was the best compliment ever (or so far). Sometimes I feel like that in me being seen, people feel like they are seen, or at least they feel like they have the potential, or that they also-- deserve to be seen. Sometimes they cheer.
Before the Kia I had a decorated police car-- I'd written World's Gonna Change in a huge font on one side, and Worlds Gonna Pay on the other; it had "anatomically correct" guns and missiles on the roof, a revolving radar dish, and googlie eyes-- signifying big brother watching you-- all over it. The eyes were arranged in various motifs around reproduction, sperm swimming on the doors, and an egg with more sperm on the hood. It was weird. It was Kickass.
I was headed back on the ferry from the Kitsap County Future Fair one night in June back in 2010, when there was a fire in the car while on the boat, which broke out when I was up on the passenger level. There was an alarm, there was a moment of panic, there was an overly aggressive retiree with a US Marines tee-shirt that nearly assaulted me. I was cuffed, questioned, detained, and finally released to go home, and briefly labelled a security risk. In putting out the fire, the crew had broken out some windows of the car. So I drove home on the highway two hours from Everett with the remaining windows down. (I realize now that the fire was a form of self-sabotage, started by a faulty neon light transformer.) When I got to Sumas, shortly before dawn, the town cop stopped me. He said I was weaving a bit. I was cold and sober. I think he was just bored, and maybe a little curious. And I was a raving queen driving a tarted up police car with missing windows. He let me go. Well, what was he going to do? I tell you all this because I'm sort of proud of it now, but truthfully at the time I was convinced that I had to quit being so transgressive with my art. Again with the transgressive. But what is art for, if not to question the comfortable. I still believe that.
Much later, in an effort to stir up a fan base or some such, I tried Tik-Toc, but gave up after a couple weeks. Most platforms and most of the posts on them are a means to either make money or, more constructively, build an audience (lastly-- reinforce social connections). But for me, having people follow me on Tik-Toc is only the low end on a continuum that leads to stardom. Except I never want to be famous if it only cements my dependency on the apps, making posting on social media a treadmill. So, maybe I'm actually okay with being invisible, or at any rate a non-entity-celebrity. Maybe I haven't tasted fame, but I've sniffed it out from the next room. Its lost its new-car smell; its more like your Dad's stale Pontiac with the cracked vinyl seats. Its nice enough, and it'll get you there. But don't wear short pants if you park in the sun.