At 25, I had the sudden realization that life was not going to happen for me. Not that life wouldn’t continue to happen, it would. But that life, whether from fear, laziness, carelessness, or indecision, could remain stagnant forever.

Both my parents knew from a young age that they wanted to be artists, selfish and insecure, proud and performative, individualistic and tragic. They knew what the world had in store for them and never wavered in their conviction. They love what they do. They live for their work, and each day is a joy, a painful pleasure, a fulfillment of what they were created to do.

My first job was as an ice cream scooper on Bedford Avenue. Actually, if you want to get technical, my first solo venture was selling iced tea out of a jar on Bedford Avenue. For $1.50, you could get a small cup of lukewarm green tea with a dash of honey. The perfect drink for a hot summer day. I would charge $1.50 because I quickly realized that people rarely asked for the change. Either because I was a cute kid or they were in a hurry. That was my first taste of capitalism. For cheating the everyday person out of their hard-earned coin.

A few weeks later, I decided my dream was to be a divorce lawyer. Neat little cubicles, lunch breaks, and romantic tales of woe. I imagined myself in a sharp suit and crisp linen shirt. Giving presentations to other people wearing sharp suits and sending out emails where I signed off with, Best Regards, Ms. Zlamany. 

In college I dyed my hair blonde and rode mechanical bulls in the south.

After college I would throw parties at my dad’s apartment on Park Avenue, and my mom would go up to each of my friends, asking them if I was a drug addict. I didn’t realize that being unemployed after college was an indicator of addiction.

I quickly found a job.

I grew up surrounded by people consumed with creating, so helplessly hooked that even if a meteor was hurtling to Earth, a paintbrush would be in hand desperately adding the final touches to their canvas before inevitable doom. Not me. Hopefully I’d be on a beach somewhere, sipping a piña colada, lounging in the sun, glistening in all my final moments of glory.

My mom can never relax on vacation. Not because she’s convinced that the oven was left on or the faucet running in the bathtub. But because her studio, her haven, is no longer within comfortable throwing distance. In 2018, she discovered miniature watercolor kits. Just enough to keep the demons at bay for the five days she’s away from Brooklyn.

I still get asked, “How come you never drew?” or “Do you ever paint?” Maybe, with the lofty confidence of a white male artist, enough time, patience, and the right publicist, I could probably convince a surprising number of people that I was one. Being an artist isn’t about convincing, it’s a compulsion. A compulsion I could admire, but any attempt to manufacture would feel defective.

As is the bittersweet irony that seems to weave its way through life, the people least interested in being cultural tastemakers often become them. Artists moved to Williamsburg when cab drivers wouldn’t take you over the bridge and crack was sold at a grocery store on the corner. Not with the fervor of pioneers heading west, but with the casual shrug of people who had no interest in becoming pioneers at all.

I’ve been waiting to be consumed ever since I sold iced tea out of a jar. Like ash balanced precariously at the end of a cigarette, it always seemed moments away from falling into my lap. What I had once mistaken for a deficiency was simply a difference. The ash could fall. My fluffy white carpet would be fine.