PIZZA. What if every post from here on was just an image with one word in caps.
I like the way this photo turned out. I did not take it but it is of me. It was a lucky one out of the many we took that day.
Also: Oh fine then.
I’m surprised by how many notes this has now… Also, hello new followers! I hope you enjoy queer vegetarians talking about their feelings.
I made this! This dress. It isn’t saying much as it’s essentially a glorified sack with three holes. But still.
I sold a painting yesterday. The first time I sold something to someone I didn’t know personally. I recognized her when I met her, though, as she’d asked me about the same painting at the opening. “Are you Charlotte?” she asked me. She said my last name. I nodded. She asked me other questions, mostly about the other people participating in the show. I’m not used to being sought out by people I don’t know. I had my photo taken twice: once in a group and then by myself. I realised I was holding my beer close to my throat, a defensive gesture.
After the opening T and I went down a few blocks and ate panipuris and saag paneer. It felt indulgent; the luxury of affording not to cook. I tucked one of my legs under me in the booth seat. It was late. The plates were made of metal and spun each time we touched them. We’d both taken a bottle of beer from the opening, the condensation pearling on the necks of them. “I feel fraudulent,” I said to him, ripping off a piece of flatbread. “As though I don’t deserve to have my paintings hung there,”. He gave me an incredulous look and shook his head but he didn’t reply for a while, chewing. “That’s normal,” he said eventually. “That happens,”.
I told myself I should spend the sale money on something sensible, but I rather promptly bought a second pair of Doc Martens instead.
