Love and Art

I found a piece I wrote during my senior year of high school, when I was still learning and coming to terms with what I went through. Though my views have amended to conclude that damaged love can be rebuilt and reconstituted, I find my previous insights no less intriguing.

     "Some people say that art is a reflection of emotion, of love, but in reality they are one and the same. Love is an art and art is a combination of all of the emotions involved in true love; a painting can show a wide range of color, can use more colors to create an image than the eye can recognize. One might see a picture of a beautiful woman and not realize that her even skin tone is a combination of ocher, crimson, chartreuse, and azure. In this same sense, a true loving relationship might appear simple and elegant, but is composed of trust, anger, affection, frustration, patience, and honesty. There is always more than meets the eye in a skillfully crafted relationship, as in any good painting.
     Love, like oil paints on canvas, begins blank. It develops through small strokes and layers, like the tiniest connections and bonds that from between people. A multitude of colors and thoughts and feelings are incorporated in the process of building this image. When an oil work is finished and dried, we admire it. The elegance and balance is astonishing; the skill and time involved in creating something beautiful does not go unnoticed. Such a painting might become a prized work that serves as an ideal or example to future artists. Yet, over time, oil paint cracks. Onlookers who view the painting regularly may not notice the colors fading, the warm tones and soft hues steadily yellowing. They would not be immediately alarmed as the top layers of the scene began to crumble and flake off of the under-painting. Someone who saw the painting for the first time, even a person who is unfamiliar with art, who realize that the once-blue skies have transformed to a sickly aqua. They would see that lush plant life browned and withered over time. An unfamiliar viewer would see the cracks and chips and question why no one ever tended to them.
     We, who treasure love as we do priceless oil paintings, would eventually try to restore the masterpiece. We would attempt to repair the damage, perhaps even paint over the layers upon layers of crackled image within the frame, but the damage would be there. The original, beautiful, skilled strokes that once graced such a lovely scene would be long-since faded and ruined. Perhaps centuries later viewers would be unaware of what the colors were originally meant to be. Future viewers would not lose the sense of awe that the original appreciators had, but that awe would be centered around the age of the painting as well as its survivability over the years rather than the beauty it once represented. Love is a painting. It is a layered scene of emotion, trust and affection that should be elegantly framed within stability and mutual dependence. An artist puts their heart on canvas as surely as a lover puts their into another's hands, though hearts are rarely treated with the due reverence that priceless oil paintings are.
     Our idealist nature romanticizes art as much as it does true love. We are forever seeking the vitruvian man of emotional connections; our views of relationships and love are often as skewed as the proportions of the human figure throughout artistic history. We often seek unrealistic perfection in both and thus the realistic experiences in daily life seem to pale in comparison. It is only upon our realization that elegant oil figures on canvas are skewed that we can love someone. We love fine works of art for their flaws, not in spite of them, an the same should apply to people in our lives. The smallest mistakes in the under-painting of a scene, disproportionate measures of a statue, or lengthened perspective in a drawing are all flaws to be embraced. Though, not all flaws may be overlooked. In love, as in art, there are certain standards that must be met.
    We might value a painting for its unique character, but if vital pieces were missing, or huge mistakes made on the part of the artist, the finesse of the painting would be lost. No one would have the kind of reverence for the Mona Lisa that they do if she had no nose. Onlookers would, in fact, become disillusioned and disappointed in their once-favorite artist. There are some fundamental mistakes that shake a person to the very core; if these mistakes are made in a loving relationship, one partner might see fit to forgive, but the disappointment and disillusionment would linger like a gash across canvas. There is, unfortunately, no way to repair such damage. Once a painting is torn, it can be patched but the integrity of the artist's work is forever lost. Trust can be rebuilt, but the mistake that damaged it cannot be undone.
     there is no end to the list of similarities and comparisons between love and art. They are integral to one another and inexplicably intertwined in the human psyche. Art is an extension of ourselves that is responsible for love, in all its macabre splendor. For any artist, the two are irrevocably paired; our work is influenced by the emotions and reflects all of the torn canvases we have endured."

Retail: Things Customers Should Learn

     So, I've worked at Sears for about a year now, and it has certainly given me some interesting insights on people and working in retail. Besides the usual gripes about coworkers, schedules, and who ate your lunch out of the employee fridge, I can say that I'm glad I work somewhere that emphasizes good customer service. I like helping people, talking to customers, and generally staying busy: I'm both lucky and that my job as a salesperson entails more interaction with people than just pointing them in the right direction. Although the majority of Sears customers are friendly and pleasant, a handful of them have remained in my memory and formed quite a list of pet peeves. If you ever interact with a salesperson, or anyone in retail, here are some little do's and don'ts that'll make everything easier.

•      Don't ignore me when I greet you. You would think this is a given, but it's not. At Sears we are trained to welcome everyone who walks in, measured by whether or not we do, and reprimanded if we don't. Normally my "Hi, welcome to Sears. What can I help you with today?" is accepted nicely or politely declined, yet every day without fail someone is completely rude about it. It never fails that someone glares at me silently and stalks off into the rear aisles of the electronics section as though my presence is an insult. The way you react to that greeting when you enter my area quickly determines the kind of service you're going to get from me; be polite and I'll be the most wonderful sales associate you ever worked with. : D

•      Don't assume your purchase gives you ultimate power over me. Yes, I work on commission, but that doesn't mean that I will bend over backward and break store policy so you won't return your purchase. Not long ago I had a woman come into my department to return some vacuum bags without a receipt; our store policy is no receipt/no return but she harangued me and threatened to return the $600 Dyson vacuum she purchased at our store if I wouldn't return the $7 dollars worth of old, opened vacuum bags. First of all, if the salesperson you're addressing didn't sell you whatever it is you're threatening to return, they don't CARE. It's not my commission or my paycheck you're affecting, the fact that I'm working with you on any transaction that isn't earning me commission is a humongous courtesy. ALSO: Even if you're returning something from my department, even if I'm selling you something and would lose commission if you walked away from the sale, your bad behavior is inexcuseable. Across the board I make about 1% commission on the tv's I sell ... your refusal to buy that $1500 flat-screen just because I won't give you an extra few bucks off, is not more than fifteen dollars off of my paycheck. I'd rather pay you fifteen bucks of my own to stay out of my department and go purchase somewhere else. Yes, the commission is nice, but in the year I've worked at Sears I can count maybe two sales that were large enough to make me endure rude, insufferable customers. 

•      Watch your kids in. I work hard to clean, organize, and stock the electronics section so it looks nice. I put together the shelves, displays, and TVs. I don't get paid to babysit your children while you're in another part of the store, nor am I paid to clean up after them. Anyone in retail can tell you horror stories about bodily fluids, dirty diapers, snot, and saliva in many places it shouldn't be ... I will suffice to say that there are bathrooms, changing stations, and babysitters for a reason. If you let your children demolish my 3D display, don't expect me to go out of my way to find items for you. As the oldest of several children I'm pretty understanding of how hard it is to shop while watching children, but if mothers of triplets or special needs kids can do so without destroying everything, so can you. 

• Don't come into my department thinking you know more than I do. I don't care if you did hours of internet research or know someone who's in the business, if you came to our store to purchase a tv rather than Fry's or Best Buy I'd bet its because of our customer service. Contrary to several customers' beliefs, the sales associates in each department are thoroughly trained and often go to trade shows and road shows to become even more knowledgeable and meet reps from every company. I'm in electronics because I'm a gamer/nerd; I'm good at what I do and dealing with technology every day means I probably know a little more about how well it works than what some Yahoo! Answers question can tell you. Ask all the questions that you want, but don't argue with me: don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about and don't preach to me about what you think you know. As soon as someone starts doing that my only interest is to get them out of my department as quickly as possible.

• Don't haggle. My store isn't a flea market. I don't have control over the prices or sales, what they include or exclude, and pressuring your salesperson about it will only irritate them. What you're buying in my store is the price the tag says because corporate says so, no amount of complaining to any manager or supervisor is going to change that. No, I won't give you an extra 10% off or void the legally required recycling fee just because you want me to. Don't offer me ultimatums about things that aren't under my control and then storm out when you don't get what you want.

     All of that seems like a lot, but if you're ever going to make a big purchase like a TV or washer and dryer set, trust the salespeople. We know quite a bit about what we're doing, and what we don't know we do our best to find out for you. Be courteous, be patient, and most of all be respectful. Just because I'm behind a register or because I work on commission doesn't mean you can treat me like crap. If you're a friendly customer I'll find good deals and promotions and give you the best service I can, simple as that.

Puppies and Gremlins

I'm not sure how odd it is to think in extended metaphors, but I usually do. When I'm trying to make sense of things or think about emotions, the visual part of me tends to kick in and create some kind of metaphorical imagery to illustrate where my mind is going, and when those metaphors are interesting or I feel they effectively describe what I'm feeling I jot them down. While trying to take stock of my emotional and mental state earlier today, I came across yet another extended metaphor.

I was always told that 'every day is a gift' and implored to uphold the mentality that we should always be grateful to be alive. What I've realized after everything I've been through, is that each day is quite literally a present ... a mysteriously shrouded or wrapped thing we know is awaiting us, the contents unpredictable and the possibilities unlimited ... yet more often than not those presents contain nothing we ever wanted.

When I mention unwanted presents, I'm not referencing the pair of socks from grandma that all little kids threw to the side on Christmas morning, I mean the kind of present that you want to fling back at the giver with all your might. This is where my mental metaphor really started to kick in. It's as though every day you wake up to a wrapped present and the first thing you do in the morning is open it: you've been told your whole life that if you try your hardest and do well that you'll be rewarded by, say, a puppy. What no one told you as a child is that nine times out of ten you'll unwrap, not a puppy, but some kind of gremlin.

In my mind, a 'puppy day' is one that (as every day does) will take some work. You've got to nurture it, care for it and tend to its needs, but it will love you in return. You end up with a fulfilling sense of affection and appreciation for the work that you put in. A 'gremlin day', in my experience, is one that comes unwrapped because you don't have to wait to find out what kind of day it's going to be. Unlike the puppy option, the gremlin takes your effort, affection, nurturing, and hard work and simply devours it. It drains you of all the energy and emotion you have to give and screeches for more. It slaps you awake, spits in your coffee, and follows you around all day to insult, demean, and belittle you. It whispers horrible thoughts in your ear until your self-worth and confidence have melted and then laughs and demands even more of your effort. When you think you're about to escape it, that gremlin follows you home and continues its work late into the night, affecting even your dreams. I'm pretty sure everyone knows what I'm talking about when I say that a gremlin kind of day is when you wake up late, with a headache; you feel exhausted before your eyes open. You feel drained and empty and have no interest in interacting with other human beings and are unable to see the positive side of any of your efforts because everything seems so overwhelming. You simply struggle through from morning until nighttime with fragmented hope that tomorrow will be a 'puppy day'.

The other part that no one tells you as a child is that when you unwrap a puppy and experience that rare sense of fulfillment, it goes away in the evening. It fades away and you toy with chance again the next morning, wishing and hoping another puppy day comes along. The good fades, but the gremlin sticks with you for several days at a time: when it should fade away it instead clings to your subconscious and claws at your hope. When you keep unwrapping gremlins every morning they fester and multiply rather than fading until it feels as though no amount of 'puppy days' will ever counteract the damage that has been done.

When people describe feeling as though they've got a 'cloud over their head' I imagine the gaggle of vicious, unwanted, gremlin fiends they've opened every morning throughout the last week and hope that their next puppy will be strong enough to fight them off. So with regards to that, I say I've experienced a slew of gremlins and weak puppies and hope someone out there will understand what I mean.