Still making art? Fear no art. Art is for everyone.

One of life's perplexing questions, right up there with why men spit, is how every day, I somehow manage to get a blob of toothpaste on my shirt. I can't figure it out. I never notice when it happens. I only notice it when I'm in a social setting. I happen to look down and see a circle of dried white stuff and think to myself, dang it, it happened again. Is this one of the signs of aging? I don't need a toothpaste blob to tell me I'm getting older.

Speaking of feeling old, this week I received an email from an old friend. I met Mary (not her real name) when I was seventeen years old working as the reservation-taker at a popular dinner restaurant. The restaurant had an Irish musical theme; Mary was of Irish descent and loved to sing bawdy Irish drinking songs. She was several years older than I, with much more life experience (a failed marriage, a small child). For some reason, Mary took a shine to me and decided she would support my budding career as a painter by buying two of my paintings.

Forty-four years, we are still friends, although I moved away, she went to work for a bank, and we lost touch. However, over the years, Mary managed to accumulate a storage attic full of junk, some of which was art I had made in the 1970s when I still believed I could make a career of making art. Mary believed in me whenever my enthusiasm flagged. We spent many hours in my parents' basement building picture frames to nail around my brightly colored impasto acrylic-covered canvases with the intention of selling the paintings at the Saturday Market, a gathering of craftspeople and artists displaying their wares under tents and awnings haphazardly erected in an open parking lot, come rain or shine. I rewarded Mary's devotion to my art with art, which she apparently stored in her attic.

Her email message last week was something like this: It's been too long, let's get together, I have some of your art to share with you. Yes, she used the words "share with you." Immediately I recognized the code for Please come take your stuff back. I replied affirmatively, we set a time, and I drove over to her house in northeast Portland, expecting to take back the two paintings she paid $50.00 for back in 1974.

I walked into a chaotic scene. Her living room looked like a thrift store. Every surface held junk. The couch was obscured by artwork of various sizes and shapes, not all of which was mine, I was relieved to see. Mary gestured at a stack of paintings I had not seen since high school and early college.

“I had no idea you had so much of my artwork!” I exclaimed, thinking to myself, do I owe her forty years' worth of storage fees?

“I'd like to keep these two,” she said, pointing out two small painterly paintings, one of a stream coming down a hillside and the other of a beat-up wagon in an overgrown field. I pondered both pictures, not remembering either one. Certainly I had no recollection of painting them, but my signature was on both, so there is reality for you.

“Keep what you want,” I replied generously, thinking to myself, will all this crap fit in the trunk of my car? I saw some drawings I'd done while in fashion school (yes, I went one year to fashion school, you would never know by looking at me). “Just let me take some photos of them.”

I used my fancy new smartphone to take photos of the two little paintings. Then I gathered up an armload of the paintings and drawings she no longer wanted and hauled it all out to my car.

Was I ever so naive that I believed I could make a life for myself as a painter? Apparently so. I was in art school, everyone I knew was a painter, so I painted. We all painted, constantly. That first year of art school I produced scores of paintings. Most of them are lost to history. Maybe they hang on walls in houses somewhere. Maybe they clutter up attics and basements. I don't know. I wish now I had not been so prolific. At night I dream of the paintings stored in my own basement (well, my landlord's basement), the cast-offs of my mother and now my friend Mary. I wonder, how do people get rid of art? I don't mean, how do they haul the junk to the dump? I mean, how can they bring themselves to part with art that others have made? I don't mean crafts that disintegrate into plaster dust or knick-knacks made of construction paper and pipe cleaners. I mean authentic art, made by authentic artists seeking to express themselves through visual media. I have art from people I knew in college, people I knew in Los Angeles. Would I call them and ask them to take their work back, I don't want it anymore? No, never, not in a million years.

But now, after downsizing my mother into assisted living, I know that we don't take anything with us. Nothing last forever, not people, not stuff, not art. Art used to be made of organic materials; art used to decay. Modern humans make too much stuff, and none of it decays. There is no room for all this stuff. My old paintings are junk now, trash, stuff nobody wants. And because the paintings are largely made of acrylic paint, they will never decay, they will never turn to compost to help grow the next garden. I thought I was making art, but what I really made was pollution.

Never again, people.

The tiger in the grass at the self-scan checkout

I like to scan my own groceries. Call me a control freak, but I feel empowered when I'm the one moving my broccoli from basket to bag. I like feeling the weight of the zucchinis and realizing, dang, those things are expensive this week. Maybe I should eat more onions. I like having time to bag my stuff the way I want, with frozen peas protecting the eggs, and onions protecting the apples. Unfortunately, my pleasant buying and bagging experience was upset today by an interaction I had with an employee at my favorite grocery store, Winco.

I used to think Winco was for losers. My mother shopped at Winco. Then I started shopping for her and found out I could save a lot of money shopping there. Now I shop at Winco weekly. Winco is an employee-owned store. Usually that means people who work there are friendly and helpful. However, it also apparently means that certain employee-owner control freaks are adamant about enforcing the fifteen-items-or-less rule at the self-scan checkout.

I don't go grocery shopping to make trouble. On a sunny day, I tend to smile at everyone, whether they smile at me or not. Sunshine makes me bold. My default sunshine mode is friendly. However, on a sunny day, I don't feel inclined to back down from a confrontation when I think I'm right. If it had been raining today, I might have given in and wheeled my eighteen items to the regular checkout line. I would have slunk out without making eye contact with anyone, another browbeaten customer who will daydream about returning later with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter.

Just kidddding. I'm not violent. But today I felt energized by the sunshine and ready to fight for my right to scan my own. Here is what happened.

The sign above the six self-scan stations says "Express Line: About 15 items." I usually don't bother to count my items. No other cashiers have bothered to count the items in my cart and enforce the fifteen-item limit. The only time the number of items is an issue is when a certain employee is manning the self-scan department. He's a small man, younger than me, I'm guessing, with sandy hair, a sparse mustache, and a stink-eye expression I know only too well from years of looking in mirrors.

When I wheeled my half-empty cart to an unoccupied self-scan station, he stood up straight in his red apron and sent me a look I've come to recognize. Uh-oh, here it comes, I thought. We've had this conversation before.

I waited. Wait for it. I picked up one of my items. Wait for it.... yes.

“This line is for fifteen items only,” the man in the red apron said. I smiled. Bring it on, I thought. Only one other station was occupied. If there had been a crowd or a line, I wouldn't have bothered revving up for this, but energized by sunshine and righteousness, I felt lively.

“I have eighteen items,” I said, lifting my chin at him.

“The sign says fifteen items."

“The sign says 'About' fifteen items,” I said.

He squinted his eyes at me and looked flustered. “About fifteen means fifteen,” he said.

“No, about fifteen means about fifteen,” I replied firmly. I waited. If he told me to leave, I would leave. However, he threw up his hands and surrendered.

“Do what you want,” he said and turned away, furious.

For a moment, I felt guilty, like, wow, should I back down? Should I not have argued? Am I a bad person? Then I thought, hey, I'm the customer here. I don't care if he owns the whole store. Nobody is being harmed by my scanning eighteen items instead of fifteen. And if the employee-owners really cared so much, they should change their damn sign to read "No more than 15 items! Carol, that means you!"

I efficiently (and I admit, somewhat triumphantly) scanned my eighteen items, but as I scanned, I realized I might have missed an opportunity to make someone feel better by letting them win a trivial argument. Instead I indulged my desire to stand up for my consumer right to pitch a fit.

I could have backed down. However, would that have been better? He may have felt triumphant for a while at winning the argument, but sooner or later, an insidious guilt may have crept into his mind, guilt over providing bad customer service. Guilt might have ruined the rest of his day. Thus, I saved him from a day ruined by guilt. Right.

Somehow, though, I sense that he is not likely a guy who would chew up his insides with guilt. If he's like me, he probably turned that moment of defeated frustration into a full day of passive aggressive resentment. Us control freaks get a lot of mileage out of being angry.

Either way, no matter what I did, odds are, he would have been angry, because he's likely unhappy with the fact that his life (and all the people in it) are out of his control. No matter what he does, customers won't behave. Cash machines balk. Nothing I do or don't do will change his outlook if he is as unhappy as I am guessing. He's probably a frustrated artist. Maybe his mother is dying of dementia in a nursing home. Whatever it is, it's not my problem. I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it. He will have to find his own way through the swampy customer service cesspool.

I can wish him well and bless his journey. Next time I see him manning the self-scan checkout, I will attempt to avoid making his life hellish if I can. I might even split my groceries into two batches, no more than fifteen items each. But I won't stop scanning my own groceries.