After any trauma (realtor-induced)(see category: travel) I go back to my first loves. There are many. Ballet was my first passion but I grew too tall. That was before the days of Karen Kain and other long-limbed dancers. In my days you had to be petite– which I never was.

Then painting.

And only much much later, writing.

“Put all this stuff away,” realtor Max instructed me. He meant my paintings, my family photos, my books. I felt stripped naked. Never mind. A STAGER would tell me what to replace my treasures with. I can roll up my Persian and rent nice furniture.  

I still feel queasy about the whole misadventure. My husband feels totally washed out, demoralized. But see, that’s the point: Realtors make you feel so unworthy that you’re glad to grab at anything to restore a bit of your humanity.

“They’re not coming back,” I tell my husband. “I won’t let them in the house.”

Still, my dream house on the hill is up for sale. By us. No intermediaries. Take us as you find us.

Forward by Anna Freud:

“Certain inhibitions to create are ascribed to a fear of regression to an undifferentiated state in which boundaries between id and ego become blurred and one cannot symbolize the individual’s pregenital and genital orgiastic experiences…………………….”

Had enough?

As for me:  orgiastic experiences I’ve had a few but then again too few to mention…

 So how come I’m not painting any more?

1. Hard to lift a glass of Chilean red and paint with the other hand.
2. Too expensive. To be taken seriously I’d have to pay a fortune to get a painting framed, pay a gallery 45% and never see the painting again. That is, if I’m lucky. If not, I’d have to get shnockered on my celebratory wine, wolf down some cheese and crackers and look pathetic.
3. Can’t you paint for your own pleasure?

              No.      

 So now I’m not even writing books any more. Just blogging. It’s cheaper and can be done with a glass of wine at hand.