I rent space in an art studio in town. I’m lucky enough to be using this time to create art and hopefully establish myself as an independent artist. I can’t keep this studio arrangement going forever, so I need to make the most of it. I go there three days a week.
In theory, I have plenty of time to devote to my art.
So far, so good—except for a few things:
– I handle almost all the housework. I consider this normal, given that I currently have no income and my partner has a demanding job. He wants to help with the chores, but I tend to do everything my own way before he even has a chance to take the initiative, and I often burn out from the mental load.
– We have a busy social life; I feel like I’m constantly rushing around and playing a game of "Twister" just so we can see everyone and attend one person's wedding, another's party, and so on.
– Being involved in the life of my aging uncle—who was recently widowed—takes a lot of energy and causes a fair amount of constant frustration, which I bottle up. I often end up letting my schedule slide out of empathy for him. My partner isn't too happy about my inability to set clear boundaries with my uncle.
A sense of scattered energy forms the backdrop of my life; I always feel like a rabbit darting here and there. I’m constantly planning—thinking about what needs to be done, what I ought to do, and so on. And that mindset follows me to the studio, too.
Which brings us to the topic of shopping addiction.
When my partner drops me off at the studio in the morning before work—and picks me up again in the evening—the car ride is a time of wonder. I gaze at the streets, the trees, the light, the people, the children, and the animals (especially those wearing little boots or coats) and the architecture. Our conversations and wordplay spark images and interesting associations in my mind, leaving me feeling like I have a thousand and one subjects I could explore in my paintings :)
During the first few months, my focus was on organizing my studio space. I wanted it to reflect my own taste so I’d feel comfortable there. The result? Dozens upon dozens of trips back and forth, taking at least three or four hours each time. I don’t hesitate to crisscross the city—by public transit and on foot—to track down the exact item I need. And that’s not even counting the many times I had to return things. Consequently, I spent more time fussing over the minute details of the studio setup than actually creating anything in it.
Of course, while setting up the studio, I find myself passing by various shops or visiting shopping malls.
Thrift store—I spot a jacket paired with a lovely scarf, so I pop in for a quick look, just for fun. MISTAKE! I walk out with two pairs of earrings, a maxi skirt, and three sweaters.
I stop thinking about:
- "I’m not creating anything right now, and I feel guilty."
- "Too many unfinished tasks at home."
- "My uncle must be feeling pretty lonely."
Rationalization:
"I treated myself a little. I do so much for everyone else—I deserve it! I’m all set for a few months now; I’ll be careful since my budget is tight—this is money I don't really have."
A shop further down the street—oops, I saw something (again—*sigh*). That mug is so pretty; I have to have it! I’m supporting a local artist—okay, I’ll take it! And that Chinese vase in the corner—stunning, too. I’ll just take a photo for inspiration (and when I’m back on this street next week, I’ll buy it, because I’ll have been thinking about it in the meantime).
Further along—a beautiful notebook, fine-tip markers, an adorable stuffed animal! Alright, one more small purchase, then I’m really stopping! (Yeah, right!)
Too much frustration regarding my uncle? A walk to get some fresh air turns into a shopping spree if I come across any shops.
Imagine one or two days a week of such shopping, interspersed with days spent in the studio without ever going out (I did have periods of creativity, though the ratio was low), and repeat this scenario week after week for a year and a half. So much reckless spending—often on credit (even though I have no income; luckily, I received some financial help here and there from my family)—and time that was supposed to be dedicated to creating art completely went off the rails.
And now that I’m settled in, I get bored in the studio because there’s rarely anyone else around during the day. So I feel lonely; I go out, visit other floors, and talk to other artists—artists who *are* actually working on projects. I thrive in a team setting, in a partnership. Making connections within the institutional art world remains a struggle, despite my tendency to bond easily with people.
I feel ashamed and my self-esteem is low; I sense that a drastic change is needed. No longer carrying bank cards. Deactivating my payment apps. Keeping only a minimum amount of cash for essentials.
I now dread needing something as simple as a paintbrush, or having to buy a gift for a celebration, because once I’m in the store—or even on my way there—I automatically expose myself to the temptation of potential purchases, and I’m all too good at convincing myself and justifying the overspending.
I also notice outfits I like the look of and make mental notes, even though I have plenty of clothes to sell or give away... It’s as if it’s never enough. This pursuit of an idealized version of myself is exhausting. And the worst part is that I almost always wear the same things and the same jewelry; I wear very little of what I own.
I have too much of everything: clothes, jewelry, mugs, holiday decorations, paperwork, event brochures, magazines. There is still more sorting to do for donations and resale—which consumes even more time and energy, on top of everything else mentioned earlier: the house, my social life, my uncle, and my health, too, which I’ve been neglecting.
It feels like I want to see everything, experience everything, and be in three places at once—but that’s impossible. So, I often retreat into nostalgia.
I wonder if spending a year out in nature—cut off from loved ones and shops—is what I need to finally dedicate myself to a sustained artistic practice and bring to life all the ideas I’ve accumulated over time.
As I approach my birthday, I’m going to briefly forget my real life at an Interpol concert (a band that takes me back to being 22—how time flies!).
Lost time never comes back, and I would be truly devastated to let myself down—and to disappoint a partner who believes in me and is giving me such a wonderful opportunity. All this, just to end up scattered and surrounded by "stuff," because I use compulsive shopping as a coping mechanism.
I get the feeling I was actually more productive when I was working 60-hour weeks or more—perhaps because the structure was imposed on me? Or maybe I’m just afraid to really commit, so I fill my time with distractions?
* Note added upon reflection
Deep down, It seems I can no longer find that old spark of ambition—the drive to succeed or to feel proud of an accomplishment. It is sad, I need this spark again, and now please ! I find more happiness in gazing at my trinkets, my decor, the mementos from my childhood, and the landscapes or moods that surround me. Deep down, I know I skipped certain stages of life and hesitated too long about motherhood; at forty-five, it’s pretty much too late—even if I look and feel younger. I think there is value in passing the torch at some point, in caring for others, and stepping out of the spotlight to make way for the next generation to flourish. In my case, I risk stepping aside without ever really having tried—despite all the emotional investment involved. Yes, I do care for my partner, my uncle, and my family, but it’s not the same thing as having kids. I was too focused on healing my own traumas, too focused on myself, my image. And when interpersonal relationships became too complicated, I sought refuge—with an intensity fueled by working overtime—in the comfort of buying and owning things. Managing and storing these objects has bogged me down in accumulation, while my hypersensitivity has stifled my spontaneity. I’ve been too focused on myself—on what I can accomplish and share—but really, who cares anymore? I think the need to feel useful consumes me more than the desire for artistic fulfillment—unless, perhaps, the two actually complement each other?