guste-disgusted

[guste-disgusted]

that is a good painting for a woman

I could write a never-ending poem or five or 8 for each year I spent in art school in Lithuania and still have things to say about it. There is a lot that could be said about long hours at school drawing a lousy made replica of Ancient Greek sculpture or people who hanged themselves high as Christmas decorations in the building, “psychologists” who tell you to clap your hands instead of helping to cope with an enormous amount of stress and anxiety. And that is not even a fraction of stories that happened there. But everyone in my country knows this - the school is notorious for manufacturing one note “artists” (future teachers and people who create a “meaning”, even though that meaning is as boring as a grilled cheese sandwich) and people who have mental health problems. What the public eye doesn’t see, is the treatment of women artists. I would like to say “treatment behind the closed doors”, but that would be a complete lie, since the execution of sensitive souls is carried out in the broad daylight. This happens mainly because teachers and artists don’t know any better and their behaviour is not only praised by their colleagues, but by young artists (including women) themselves. 

I was always known for my “bravery”. Even though I couldn't even hop through the gymnastics goat, I was always afraid to carry my cigarettes with me and be caught by the police (it happened to someone else once, so my fear wasn’t an irrational one. Well, maybe it was), but I always had strength to stand up for myself. In kindergarten, we were required to learn Lithuanian folk art - my country attempts to make us patriotic from a very young age, and if you look at my artwork from the first year, you can see that they succeeded in making us patriotic. We had to sing a very old song that was meantfor workers in a windmill. We had to be put in different groups and I didn’t hear which group I am in, so I just sat on the bench and waited for an opportunity to ask again where should I go. The teacher was absolutely furious that I was left there sitting and started to shout at me (that is a late-motif for a Lithuanian - any emotion should and can be expressed through anger). I looked at her - 6 year-old with poor kid’s outfit that some time ago belonged to another poor kid and asked the teacher: “do you need a calming tea or something?”. No one in my family asked this question, but for some reason I knew that it is exactly I should say. And this sentiment that no matter what happens, no matter what kind of teachers starts to express their disappointment, I should always stand up for myself.

Even though my art school was so horrible in so many aspects, there were some positive things. For example, I had art history lessons, so I know who Magritte is, and that German expressionists liked Nida. We used to skip my lovely teacher's lessons whenever we wanted to smoke illegal cigarettes from Belarus or to finish another worthless piece of "art" before the deadline. She knew that a 17-year-old would skip classes on a whim either way, so she decided to make a deal - to make up for the lost time, we had to write some small tests. So, after we collectively skipped the class,  we had to pick a random card with Lithuanian painting on it and write a comment. Everyone considered this task an easy one andcompleted in a matter of minutes, me and my friend, on the other hand, took this seriously and sat there for quite a while. I completed my task before her and decided to wait for my friend - she was the last left. I laid my head on a backpack and naively thought I could get some rest, at least for a minute. Art history teacher was surprised by how long my friend took,so she decided to look through what she wrote and maybe help her. So, she looked at the card that my friend picked and loudly, without any hesitation said “Oh, you got this painting… That is a good painting for a woman!”. 

All of my sensors were wakened up from the dead. I lifted my head that felt so heavy from the lack of rest and sleep, looked at my teacher and loudly asked “good painting… for a woman?”. She was surprised by my question more than I was surprised by her remark. We got into an argument - not because we were angry by each other, but because we couldn't understand why we couldn't agree on this matter. My friend didn’t get me either - apparently, in the room of 3 women, who have their own in the art world, I was the one who saw a problem here. The next day, my friend brought up this situation in our small drawing group - just to make fun of me. There were two more young women, and still no one really understood why I wasn’t pleasantly surprised by that "fabulous" comment. 

However, the next week during my art history class, my teacher stepped out of her way and prepared slides on "FeministArt”. I don’t know if she did it because my comment was thought-provoking, or out of malice, but either way, we spent 2 hours that week talking about Tracey Emin and Cindy Sherman, and every time she said the word “feminism”, she gazed at me with a little smile - just like little kids do when they find a secret stash of candies.

[guste-disgusted]

who is your audience?

Whenever we work on a design project, my design tutors welcome us in an auditorium and give us some direction, always emphasizing "think about your audience", and I do this through bitten teeth. And now, when I am writing something and do it without anyone looking through my shoulder I dismiss the good old tip about audience, and I am sure that my tutors would like to choke me with a Macbook charger for doing it. But to keep them from committing a crime against a 21-year-old I would like to say that even though I don’t think about people who will read me potentially, I am considering how to communicate with them. My choice is to talk to them as if they were my little sisters. And as the oldest of the three I got into a role of delivering the bitter truth when needed, and wiping their tears when no one is there to do it and biting them slightly - not out of maliciousness, but out of love, because according to three of us, the sisterhood is all about teasing, stealing lipsticks and hugging right the second you see each other. Therefore, it seems fitting to say something I said to my sister some time ago.

The bitter truth that I have shared with my sister who tends to idealise others time and time again is that “no one is as flawless as you think”. But she still believes that everyone gets things done easily while she has to grind for each task. She looks at me with some slight jealousy every time I had to do something related to art, as everything gets done “perfectly” (if such thing even exists” without the smallest hindrance. And she didn’t see the hours I spent by an easel or hoovering above some old table in art school, how many times I spent £20 on a boring exhibition and the amount of books I had to read just to finish a sentence in an essay. She doesn’t see how miserable I am in the kitchen from time to time, or how bad I am with sports, can’t tell which side is left or right, and that I am so pathetic with everything related to driving that I have decided not to even try to get a licence. In spite of the fact that she seems to focus on my better side (owning 6 fur coats and looking amazing in them), I have faith that one day, she will internalise what I say and understand that everyone struggles.

I actually believe that before we draw the first breath upon arrival into this world, we get a set of tools. And each day we use that set to overcome unavoidable obstacles.

Imagine a competition between two people: one has a teaspoon, the other has a shovel, and the first task is to dig a hole. Sure, the shovel is better suited to that, but what happens when the next day comes and you both compete in dessert eating? Do you think the person owning a shovel doesn’t envy your elegant, engraved silver spoon?

And my little sister doesn’t hear me when I praise her for her ability to understand chemistry and her skills to keep every single plant on this planet alive. But she likes my self-cut little fringe even though she has fabulous hair herself. Of course, the grass is always greener on the other side, but I hope that one day she realises the beauty and potential of the grass on her own side, especially considering her immaculate talent to keep every small plant flourishing.

[guste-disgusted]

board games

I was a fan of board games - really, I loved to pass a time playing it. It started with a young age, as lotto helped me to overcome my stuttering. Little cards with Krtek helped to talk more understandably (yes, we will ignore the fact that in my mother's tongue I am talking so fast it sounds like wooden utensils put in a blender). My family loved "Alias", as it was an activity that everyone loved doing during holidays in between consuming Russian white salad, herring and 5000 calories in mayonnaise solely. But no other game is as popular in Lithuania as “The Game of Life”.

Interestingly, no one really knows what kind of board game it is, but most of the people I know like playing it daily without even noticing. Frankly, I have played this only once, so I don’t know the rules by my heart, but I can definitely tell you about the rules of Lithuanian version. First, you have to be born in a married family, then baptised, preferably before you go to elementary school. Speaking of which - homeschooling is off the table, that is not even an option. Then, you have to graduate high school and dropping out of it is a total disgrace. Preferably, you have to get a driver’s licence during the last years of school. After that level is completed, you get to a university (extra points for law and medical schools, I get negative points for going to an art school, thank you £9,250 a year, you were really helpful), get your BA, then your points triple if you get MA. And if you don’t want to lose any points, it is mandatory to find a job just after getting your diploma and showing that off in family gatherings where everyone drinks moonshine and eats fried bread submerged in mayonnaise (again, that is 5000 calories alone) and sprinkled with grated cheese that is for some reason called the “Holland” one. 

The next stage - marriage with someone from the opposite gender. You might ask “how do you know they are the suitable partner?” Well, rules are simple: women have to be good cooks, be good with kids, always say yes to sex (rape is not a rape if it happens in a relationship after all) and not to make any noise about anything. Just smile and sit straight. Oh, don’t forget to look like Edita Vilkeviciute - even though it is her job to be a part of Chanel and be flawless, your reward is not getting smacked by comments from any person you know. For men it is quite easy - earn a lot and don’t show any feelings. As simple as that – just block something that everyone naturally has and you are good to go. Then, it is time for a summerhouse, a week or two in Turkey, Croatia or Italy, or anywhere it is cheap, oh, by the way, you are travelling with someone who you don’t love any more, but you are just stuck with as divorce is unacceptable. 

If you make a decision that contradicts anything, then oh, you fool, you can also leave the family and hope that the idiot label will wear off one day. Good luck, roll the dice, don’t disappoint your family.

[guste-disgusted]

happy as a clam

I’ve always heard others saying “happy as a clam”, but I never understood this idiom. Maybe it is because I speak in a language that only 3 million people speak, and no one there (and I really mean it) considers clams to be cheerful. If I had a chance to fix this idiom, I would change it to “as happy as a 6-year-old”. You see, 6-year-old me thought that the best dish is chicken Kiev and there is no better way to spend the time than talking to my mom while peeling potatoes for some kind of dish that would be submerged in sour cream or watching basketball with my father while he screams his lungs out when someone misses their shot.

I didn’t really need anything to feel special when I was six, as I believed that there is no one like me, therefore anything I do is magical. I loved dressing up - if you could call old poor-children’s clothes to be beautiful. I had this rose-pink tutu skirt with glittery stars - that was my proudest garment, reserved for special occasions. I also had a huge tooth gap that I wasn’t shy from showing - after all, who could be as beautiful as me? So, to my cousin’s birthday, I wore both of them and needless to say, I felt as happy as a clam. People took photos of that birthday - children’s champagne that 10 years later was banned for promoting alcoholism, cake from grocery store that tasted like a stick of butter, grapes and slices of oranges that no one ate and little children, cheering for a young boy that just grew older. I smiled in every picture - really, I was that thrilled. It felt like a beautiful day, after all - not every day you are invited in that kind of posh celebration. 

Some months later I was visiting my other cousins, who were so rich they had a computer, moreover, they played video games, unlike me, who just read books all the time, as any type of technology more expensive than a waffle maker was out of my reach. Someone from those cousins had a brilliant idea to show me pictures of me smiling wide during that birthday. And they laughed. Really, every kid in their room - my cousins, their cousins, children from their neighbourhood laughed - as they considered me to be ugly. They hated everything - the skirt, my smile and hair, my pose. Cousins and their peers pointed to my smile, telling me it was hideous, and they didn’t shy away from “what are you wearing?” remarks. However, I did fell out of love of my smile, tutu skirt and dressing up reminded me of that laughter that I still remember to this day. I’ve felt so humiliated, that 14 years later I am clamming up when someone tries to take a photo of me. 

For years I couldn’t figure why they behaved like that, but now, when I am a bit older, I can see that was no fault of mine. Today, almost 21-year-old Ms ė is regaining that happiness, that pure form of dopamine rush that only children have. I am trying to do that through appreciating every sight, smell, and sound, every sensation really, and most importantly, the joy of a child that was brutally taken from me.

[guste-disgusted]

shirt-rich

When glossy magazines found out about social media and made Instagram even glossier, publishing houses from my hometown started to make “what is in their closet” videos one after another. It seemed like a dream: how could one acquire so many beautiful things like expenses were nothing? How did they make their lives so successful they could afford a whole room and more filled with fashion items?

In full honesty, I think I wouldn’t be dazzled by those videos if my childhood was a little bit different. But it was the way it was - the most American thing in my childhood were the tv shows with a horrible translation and even more repugnant VoiceOver, which were broadcasted from Monday to Thursday, exactly 10 PM, unless something horrible happened or some basketball championship was taking place. Though I never watched these shows religiously, as I was tightly asleep at that hour (clearly it is before 8 years and counting of insomnia), there were instances I had a chance to take a glimpse at them. 

It dazzled me - peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch seemed magical, though it tasted like a quicksand and toothache the first time I took a bite; new cars in the garage of every character and never-ending wardrobes. Everyone had that - even the sideshows with two lines a season. I mean it - everyone - even the postman, had more than 3 shirts, which appeared almost impossible and something from another world, though these shows first aired almost a decade before I was born.

The only people with more than 10 items of clothing were from glossy magazines and the tv shows equivalents of them. My social bubble - adults mostly, thought that people who owned more than 6 items of clothing were shallow and even dumb. However, I wanted to be book, street or whatever smart and I also wanted to wear and own more clothing that I had at that time. See, they didn’t make a lot of clothes for kids who are built like Renaissance cherubs, or maybe they did, but my potato-rich parents couldn’t afford it at that time.  When I say “I was poor” I don’t mean that I was so poor the government institutions took me to a childcare where I got a spoonful of oats for a meal and never saw the light of day. However, I also don’t mean that I was so poor my family could only afford one ski trip a year and low-grade private school.  We had very limited funds and there had been weeks that I hadn’t seen a fresh cucumber - that was this kind of poor in my case.

But when I finally got into a little bit more money, plus moved to a country that doesn’t discriminate against people who enjoy the hedonistic side of the world as much as I do, I fell into the loop of buying, and then ended up with empty pockets again, yet shirt and everything else nice looking rich. Then, another problem came, as I didn’t have enough hangers for blouses, striped jeans or whatever floated the boat the second I pressed the button “pay”. When my hanger hunger was satisfied, I ran out of space in the closet, then stashed everything to chest of drawers, and when its seams were bursting, I had to take another trip to buy the cheapest rack and stored my second-hand clothes that were no longer loved by the previous owners. 

Everything - the lack of clothing during my childhood; the influence of people I admire; early memories of people who looked content with their situation; said magazines and the content they put out - everything became a flood of emotions and colours of London lead me to this - a moment when I am only shirt rich. The smoke of usually imitated success clouded me into thinking I needed a stack after stack of jeans, blouses and all to live a content life. Though I admire my taste and selection, I also realise that it is an example of an age old story that is perfectly illustrated by Oscar Wilde who said: “In this world there are only two tragedies: One is not getting what one wants, and the second is getting it.”

However, I can now close a chapter for a girl that loved magazines and late night tv shows, as I achieved the success of becoming “shirt rich”. I don’t know what will be my next fascination - another venture of becoming successful, but I am sure it won’t involve dressers were bursting because of my insatiable need for more clothes.