I'll never be the respectable one

In middle school I was really weird, and bullied. In high school, I learned how to be the high school version of respectable: hot

Thus, I was no longer bullied. My accomplishments were social. As I got older and the hierarchy shifted to how cool of a job someone has and how hard they work, I exploited my creativity as a way to develop a hyper specific, uniquely cool, supreme skillset and wipe out all my local opponents. I also worked full-time in jobs unrelated to art, because a struggling artist also doing real work is the only form of a respectable artist.

Now I am sitting on my couch in oversized pink pants. I just finished a large piece of carrot cake and plan to keep sitting here. Maybe relocate to the outdoors where all my neighbors can watch me do absolutely nothing of respectable value again. They’ve all already asked what I do for work, given that I never appear to leave the house, and are always confused in the same kind of way when I tell them I’m an artist who does everything myself online.

I have this terrible habit where I try to explain what I do in a way that sounds respectable, justified, or relatable. But I make frogs. I sit on my butt most of the time and make frogs, and talk about things (like this). And somehow, enough people around the world like it enough to support this side-project turned full-time project thing. It’s the most valuable thing I’ve ever had. But it’s quite literally the opposite of respectable, justified, or relatable to anyone I’ve ever encountered.

What I do simply does not make sense to people. Don’t even get me started on anyone over the age of 45 in my local surroundings who still thinks being an artist means selling oil painting originals ONLY through galleries ONLY and that the internet doesn't exist in its current capacity. I’m not trying to insult them. But their curiosity to hear about something new and different from The Way Things Work™ circa 1990 is almost always lacking.

Anyway. About 95% of the people I engage with on a somewhat regular basis in society, when I venture out of the house to do the bare minimum, are of this mentality. Recently, I’ve stopped trying to explain “what I do” in a respectable sounding way when people ask. I kind of just say I’m an artist, but when they ask what kind of art I do, I still get weird and say “I did the gallery thing but it made me broke so now I prefer to just do it myself online”.

I haven’t mustered up the courage yet to look people in the eyes and bluntly deliver “I make frogs” with no explanation of why they should respect it. Actually, wait - there was one time I successfully followed through on this. It was a car salesman last year. He definitely thought I was kooky but it was fun.

Okay, correction: I haven’t had the courage to do so yet with the people who see me on a regular basis. I still try to keep my creative life hidden to them, where it can remain a secret without being used as a way to further disrespect me.

But I love my chonky frogs, dammit. And I love sitting around and doing nothing in the all the free time I give myself because I’ve decided to build a business around making frogs and saying things (like this), dammit. I like living my own life rather than playing the social games that promise the shameless freedom to live one’s own life. Dammit.

I’m never going to be the respectable one. I have only ever been respected when I put on a costume, or play a show, or do the things I absolutely despise doing for the sake of getting some respect. I don’t care anymore.

It’s 3:18pm on a Wednesday. I’m going to go outside in my massive pink pants, sit my butt down for all to see, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon sunshine before I go back inside to make my next frog. As of now, my frogs (and this) remain my most favorite secret to the physical-social world I reside in, and while I may not want to expose it yet.. I am going to practice being more open ended when people ask me “what I do” and let them fill that intentional void as they will.

find my art here: www.jasminecherry.com/art