Some Notes On Dating An Artist


Dating an artist, you learn a lot of weird things. Artists spend an obscene amount of time observing, and you’ll inevitably absorb some bizarre facts. Shrooms improve long-term mental health, they’ll tell you. Photic sneeze reflex is recessive. You’ll begin to make a list of every sentence they start with “Did you know,” and you’ll fall in love with the subsequent argument. You’ll learn about colors, about anatomy, and about the introverted mind. You’ll learn to look at the sky more often; you’ll learn that there are infinite shades of green in a single blade of grass.

Dating an artist you’ll notice things, because you’ll feel ignorant looking at your shoes and thinking about if you want to dye your hair again. You’ll see the way the moon shines on the clouds, and you’ll notice oversized wheels on the highway. An artist will make you notice that spilled Tabasco sauce is art; that dragonflies have the most elegant body ratios, that there are a million ways to view a single painting. You’ll notice that teeth conduct electricity and kissing is ecstasy. You like to think you knew a lot of these things before initiating this relationship, but it takes a person with art for blood to show you.

Dating an artist, you’ll become completely comfortable with them. You’ll know what kind of yogurt they eat and you’ll swap underwear with them. You’ll talk about everything all the time as if you’re inebriated, lacking any sort of social discretion or inhibition. This becomes a problem when you’re at a work dinner describing the exact size of your bladder to your boss. You’ll know how they dry off when they get out of the shower (head to toe), and you’ll know how they spend hours looking at maps that you never realized could be read as books. You’ll become so intensely intimate that you’ll find yourself wanting only pure and eternal happiness for them. It will sadden you that this is an impractical desire; artists have pessimistic tendencies, and they will never be as content as you want them to be.

Dating an artist, you’ll do stupid things, inane things. You’ll get concussions in the middle of the park; you’ll sunburn just to watch the pink color surface under your skin. You’ll sit in their clothes, trying to understand the mind that sees twisted branches as ballerinas. You’ll drool into plastic bags and you’ll realize only when it’s pointed out that these behaviors are not normal; most couples do not whistle into each other’s mouths and discuss underwear immediately after sex. Most couples, you realize, say cutesy things like “I love you” after rose petal superficiality and poorly written romance novels; you’ll exchange it between chlorine and argon, because there is something dangerously attractive about an artist who knows the periodic table.

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