Othering

Journal Entry May 14

I got into the car with N. and T. not knowing what to expect. [The three of us artists had decided to carpool together to an arts luncheon put on by an organization I had recently joined.] At first, they seemed friendly but then it turned into oneupmanship. One woman asked me about my art. I gave a long, rambling reply telling about my knitting, painting and more. T. said, “That is exactly how NOT to give an elevator speech… I learned that in my Artist Trust workshop.” Then we moved to talking about N.’s art. “Christen, you like to work big. Well, I love to work small,” she said. Then they started talking about their memories of Seattle. “Christen, you’re too young to remember this…” one called back from the front seat to me as they continued to reminisce for a long time, leaving me out of the conversation. I mentioned the noisy and intense neighborhood that I had lived in while at grad school in San Francisco. “Well, I LOVE everything about San Francisco!” one of the artists gushed from the front seat, even though she had never actually lived in the city. I finally gave up and decided to mentally and emotionally disengage from the conversation, staring out the window at the rainy, green scenery and replying to emails on my phone.

When we got to the Yacht Club, my carpool companions invited me to sit with them at a lovely table decorated with tulips and cloth napkins. The walls of the yacht club were covered in model yachts and a big map of the sea. It felt like a picture of the uncharted waters I found myself in. I had launched myself on an adventure and I didn’t know where I would go. I got myself a cup of delicious looseleaf earl grey tea and collected myself. Suddenly, the volunteer coordinator swooped over to me and asked me which volunteer position I wanted to do. (Every member was required to volunteer.) “How about grantwriting?” she said. “It is a new position, and you can do whatever you want,” she told me. To my surprise, I said yes. She immediately took me to meet the President, a striking East Indian woman. She had a disconcerting way of scanning the room while I was trying to speak with her. I felt very low on the totempole!

I came back to my seat and immediately met an artist named A.—a new member with a warm, open face, tortoiseshell glasses and chipped teeth. We started showing each other our work. There were so many points of connection—fungus, rewilding, Georgia O’Keeffe.

We watched a lovely slideshow introduction of all of us new members followed by applause and photos. I ate my meager vegetarian salad with shaved cheese and nuts and wholegrain bun.

On my search for a bathroom, I walked into the “Ladies Lounge.” Two women lounged on a plush, velvet couch deep in conversation. “Oh, sorry!” I exclaimed and back out. Then I found out that the “Ladies Lounge” was a euphemism for the restroom. It had a lounge in the front room, and three toilet stalls in the adjourning room.

When I got back to my table, another artist friend came over and gave me a warm hug. On the drive home, both women behaved themselves. I don’t know why they were so rude on the drive down. Jealous? Intimidated? Trying to put me in my place? I think I was “other,” an outsider that didn’t fit their paradigm. Very strange.

Toucan painting, 30 x 40 inches, by Christen Mattix