At the tender age of 14 I fell in love with Gerard Way. Make fun of me if you will. His sultry emotional voice, and the eccentric presence you could see vibrate through his body while he sang lyrics straight from the heart of my depressed teenage angst, got my goat. There is just something about performers. The fearless confidence of their values and ability to create music in front of millions has always impressed me. We all fantasize over the men and women of the celebrated reality that is our favorite. Rob Zombie, a man with a passion for gore and death made me feel alive in all the ways I wanted. But dating real live human flesh is so different than an imagined love.
My first “true” love was the epitome of cocky. The guy was full of himself. I swear he thought his instrument was an extension of his male genitals. My eyes roll to the back of my head so far I can see my lunch just thinking of him. My second heart swelling love? More gentle and unsure of himself to the point of default. He drew beautiful quiet sketches, lost in his world. Different for being himself not for the sake of popularity. But his self doubt reflected my inner vulnerability, in ways unknown to a girl on the brink of recovery from a hatred for men. I didn’t even try with him. I couldn’t,.He was too kind to me and too unbroken. He did help me develop and define an emotional type, if you will. But not a physical one. No matter their outward appearance I was searching for something deeper. I wanted a human with confident self doubt, like myself. The oxymoron, difficult to find. I tried branching out my territory, ex-army, divorced, low key musicians, video game loving self haters, car steelers, sports enthusiasts. My turn over rate was astonishing; never staying with anyone, for the sake of enjoyment or commitment. I was getting over a pseudo-”badboy” fixer project, when I found him.
Quiet, calm, unsure of his interactions with the world, but unimaginably sure of his own perception. I found what I was looking for. He spoke through his craft, not his outward appearance, not through the number of awards, shows, tattoos, or friends he had. His prized possessions mere items on a shelf; model airplanes, records, board games, fantasy novels. He collected happiness, bottled it up in himself, letting it out for glimpses at a time. All of his emotions hidden except for when he made me laugh and taught me about one of his collections. He did not care what the world thought of him, only what he thought of himself. Never felt like every action he made right or wrong could ruin his world. The next day he would get up, go to work, dislike his necessary but loatheful job, then text me a picture of his paintings.
I knew I loved him when I saw his art. Muted worlds of color, with no need for an explanation, especially after meeting him. Inspired by internal turmoil and a need to succeed in something he deemed worthwhile. Never a doubt in his mind that he could live happily creating art, loving me, in this one bedroom apartment for the rest of his life. Did he want more? Yes, and he still does but it is a strange thing to meet someone who is content, not settling. It comforts my anxiety to constantly progress and pause and enjoy the smell of acrylic paint, the melodies of Lou Reed, and the importance of Suspiria.
The misconception that musicians are great lovers because of touch and sensuality through auditory arts is true, but only for some. The idea to define someone by the stereotype of their profession is not always accurate. But sometimes, these specific personality traits combine to make exactly that. My husband is an excellent artist. In my opinion, the only opinion that matters to me the most (he taught me that). He thinks outside logic by understanding the ins and outs of rational thought. His world without a doubt reality. So he is able to create his own, the one that bends this one. So he sees a women as a canvas instead of a human with a heart, eyes,butt, other desirable features. Sure he known those are all there, but they are all beautiful, always and should be treated as such. He enjoys how they differ and how they are the same. You see his visual perception is superior to most. Great artists are like that. So he loves me. All of me. My physical, emotional, and mental existence. He makes me feel like his muse, though I know his muse is creation itself. He knows everything about me from my curves to my annoying bad habits like throwing food everywhere when I cook. Accidentally of course. He outwardly reminds me how much he loves the dark shades of my life as much as the light.
And all I have to do is remind him that he is everything he knows he is. That he is intelligent, he is wise, he is a creator, he is a good husband, he is right to be satisfied with the joys he finds in life and that other people can see that in him too. Unfortunately, he has to teach me self love.But what better man to do so than an artist? A man that builds worlds from nothing but insulation foam, wood, good tunes, and conviction.
My first “true” love was the epitome of cocky. The guy was full of himself. I swear he thought his instrument was an extension of his male genitals. My eyes roll to the back of my head so far I can see my lunch just thinking of him. My second heart swelling love? More gentle and unsure of himself to the point of default. He drew beautiful quiet sketches, lost in his world. Different for being himself not for the sake of popularity. But his self doubt reflected my inner vulnerability, in ways unknown to a girl on the brink of recovery from a hatred for men. I didn’t even try with him. I couldn’t,.He was too kind to me and too unbroken. He did help me develop and define an emotional type, if you will. But not a physical one. No matter their outward appearance I was searching for something deeper. I wanted a human with confident self doubt, like myself. The oxymoron, difficult to find. I tried branching out my territory, ex-army, divorced, low key musicians, video game loving self haters, car steelers, sports enthusiasts. My turn over rate was astonishing; never staying with anyone, for the sake of enjoyment or commitment. I was getting over a pseudo-”badboy” fixer project, when I found him.
Quiet, calm, unsure of his interactions with the world, but unimaginably sure of his own perception. I found what I was looking for. He spoke through his craft, not his outward appearance, not through the number of awards, shows, tattoos, or friends he had. His prized possessions mere items on a shelf; model airplanes, records, board games, fantasy novels. He collected happiness, bottled it up in himself, letting it out for glimpses at a time. All of his emotions hidden except for when he made me laugh and taught me about one of his collections. He did not care what the world thought of him, only what he thought of himself. Never felt like every action he made right or wrong could ruin his world. The next day he would get up, go to work, dislike his necessary but loatheful job, then text me a picture of his paintings.
I knew I loved him when I saw his art. Muted worlds of color, with no need for an explanation, especially after meeting him. Inspired by internal turmoil and a need to succeed in something he deemed worthwhile. Never a doubt in his mind that he could live happily creating art, loving me, in this one bedroom apartment for the rest of his life. Did he want more? Yes, and he still does but it is a strange thing to meet someone who is content, not settling. It comforts my anxiety to constantly progress and pause and enjoy the smell of acrylic paint, the melodies of Lou Reed, and the importance of Suspiria.
The misconception that musicians are great lovers because of touch and sensuality through auditory arts is true, but only for some. The idea to define someone by the stereotype of their profession is not always accurate. But sometimes, these specific personality traits combine to make exactly that. My husband is an excellent artist. In my opinion, the only opinion that matters to me the most (he taught me that). He thinks outside logic by understanding the ins and outs of rational thought. His world without a doubt reality. So he is able to create his own, the one that bends this one. So he sees a women as a canvas instead of a human with a heart, eyes,butt, other desirable features. Sure he known those are all there, but they are all beautiful, always and should be treated as such. He enjoys how they differ and how they are the same. You see his visual perception is superior to most. Great artists are like that. So he loves me. All of me. My physical, emotional, and mental existence. He makes me feel like his muse, though I know his muse is creation itself. He knows everything about me from my curves to my annoying bad habits like throwing food everywhere when I cook. Accidentally of course. He outwardly reminds me how much he loves the dark shades of my life as much as the light.
And all I have to do is remind him that he is everything he knows he is. That he is intelligent, he is wise, he is a creator, he is a good husband, he is right to be satisfied with the joys he finds in life and that other people can see that in him too. Unfortunately, he has to teach me self love.But what better man to do so than an artist? A man that builds worlds from nothing but insulation foam, wood, good tunes, and conviction.
Marrying a studio artist is better than a rock star. He wears his mind and heart on a wall in my living room, in each piece he creates. And this man wants to share it with the world because he knows he is good at it. Not a part of him you can hear, not a face you can recognize, not as a language that can be understood. But of an image that takes you inside yourself and evokes a thought, a feeling, a memory, a sense of mindful awareness that you can reflect upon but can’t describe. It’s the same thing that happens when I catch him staring at me or when I watch him tie knots in fishing line. I imagine it’s the same as holding your child for the first time. But other times it’s the worry of uncertainty of the final piece I like the best. The anxiety and anticipation of each choice. The process. Marrying an artist allows you to enjoy the unholy suffering and awe of creation. It is frightening and beautiful. It’s like watching a person enjoy the struggles of life, with the hope of sharing it with others who feel alone. And I am that man’s wife. How incredible.
BRICKYARD
