The Coffee Table

Writers, Musicians, & Artists, Oh My!

I am a writer. And a musician. I think. Can I call myself these things if I don’t make a living at them? Am I an artist because I draw and quilt and batik? Or am I just an ex-speech therapist who dabbles in color and cloth?

I wrote some wanna-be-novels. My English-teacher husband read a couple and told me slam poetry was my strength. Now, I have made money at that. So, am I a poet? Maybe I’m only good at writing very short bursts of something I feel passionate about. Like mini-temper tantrums.

My husband and I used to play music together. We’d perform in public—for free and for money. I guess since we actually got paid sometimes, we could officially call ourselves musicians.  

One of the things I love about the Ozarks is the preponderance of musicians—professional or otherwise. The music jam is an art form here – a major draw when Kirk and I were pondering the purchase of property in Carroll County. We’d heard about these music circles where each person leads a tune in turn, all the others join in, and the leader raises a leg when it’s time to end the final chorus. But to actually get to select a song and signal the last measure with my foot was a thrill. (Still is, although covid has adversely affected the size and frequency of circle jams.)

I once had a photography exhibit. A collection of images from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I sold one photo. Does that make me a “photographer?” I don’t take pictures much anymore. Now everybody has a camera in their back pocket. For me, the thrill is gone.

I like wine. My first bottle was probably Boone’s Farm Apple. Which, in the ‘60s and ‘70s operated sort of like the Ozark jams: The bottle went around the circle and everybody took a sip.  I gradually gravitated toward dryer and more expensive wines. And learned a bit about grapes. And where they came from. Not much mind you, but enough to tell a Chardonnay from a Pinot Grigio or a  Gewürztraminer. 

Then, of course, the price of what my palate could tolerate went up. Six dollars. Ten dollars. Fifteen dollars. I have to stop training my palate—I can’t afford for it to be too sophisticated. So maybe you have to be rich to be a connoisseur (which my late husband frequently pronounced “kind-of-a-sewer”). Or a certified sommelier.

I just wonder how to find the lines between dabbler, expert, & professional anything.If you dance in a barroom are you a dancer?  If you cook your own dinner from scratch are you a chef? If you make your own clothes, are you a fashion designer? If you pay for a seat on a Blue Origin rocketship are you an astronaut?

These demarcations are immaterial, I suppose. Until somebody asks, “What do you do?”

“Nothing.  I’m retired.” That doesn’t cover it.

“I’m an artist, a writer, and a musician.” Sounds braggadocious.

“I breathe, eat, sleep, and defecate.” Smart ass.

“I love shopping for wine.” Drunkard.

“I’m an astronaut.”  Ha ha ha ha ha.

Some of us have the chutzpah to sell ourselves as something we are not. And some of us fail to recognize ourselves as the accomplished people we are. If money is not the point, is proficiency in the eye of the doer or the beholder?