I don't think I am having a middle life crisis, but I just dropped an insane amount on a painting this weekend. In. Sane. More money than I have ever paid for a painting before.
Why am I vexing over this?
Art History was my favorite class in college. If I haven't so conventional, I probably would have majored in it. I loved modern art, and studied Mondrian. My daughter has a keener eye for art than I do. She is a New York girlie, and loves museums.
This new painting is different than any other painting I have. It is not a variation of a landscape or a still life or a picture of birds. It is painting by a Japanese artist and called Picnic on the Moon. It is wild and daring and bold. It is beautiful and sweet and sensual and pretty. It is filled with colors that remind me of my late childhood and early adolescence. It makes me wonder and ponder and smile.
I like it.
Yet, why do I feel bad from dropping a large chunk of change on something so cool?
One friend suggested I have enough art (true), and that I should donate the money to charity instead. I used to donate lots of money to charity back when I was married. I still do, but I am starting to think that buying art isn't that different. I am not buying paintings that are so expensive that they are putting the artists or the gallery owners in the 1%. I am hopefully helping someone continue to afford their artistic lifestyle, and buy groceries and pay rent. People who create beautiful things that make people feel deserve to get paid.
I was at my Pilates class this Sunday when I got the call from the gallery. I stepped outside to take the call. The gallery gave the right of first refusal the day before, meaning I could go home, measure my walls, and sleep on it before I bought it. They were calling because a potential buyer was driving down from Vancouver, B.C., to look at it. I had already spent the morning texting a friend discussing if I should buy it.
"You've already picked out where you are going to hang it," she said. "I think you have made your decision."
And so I said yes when the dealer called, but not without a pit in my stomach.
I went back to class. There were only three of us there: me, the teacher and Roberto. The teacher asked what I paid for the painting, and I told him. I also told him I had a pit in my stomach for this size of purchase.
"I know the feeling," said Roberto. "I just dropped the same amount for World Cup tickets for next year."
Man, it was so nice to hear that someone could relate to my angst.
I grew up learning to save for a rainy day. I learned the importance of compound interest and living beneath your means and how to reinvest dividends. I knew the importance of an emergency fund, six months or more in savings in case I were to lose my job and needed to pay rent or the mortgage or now my HOA dues.
I didn't learn the art of saving for a sunny, to spend money on special things you love, that bring you joy. I am good at some sunny day spending, like traveling with my kids. I am good at going out to eat with friends.
Art is my sports car. Some people like Porsches. Some people like fancy handbags or shoes.
I like art. It is my sports car, my Porsche, my Birkin bag.
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