Originally for this week’s letter, I wrote about modern art and tied it all up with a conversation I had at the library and a glimmering Christmas ribbon
Then in the middle of a passionate tangent about Kandinsky’s Murnau Street with Women, I said, “nope.”
It’s not like I hadn’t been enjoying what I was writing. I didn’t dislike it either. I just felt guilty for caring so deeply about these women and their colorful town. Why should my readers care what I’m saying about some old painting? I imagined my biggest fans, Grandma and Grandpa, trying not to doze off at the mention of art history.
So I tossed it.
Instead, I gazed in the mirror, eye to eye with my guilt. Where did you come from?
Oh, my least favorite word,
Oh, I hate it so much. I forgot how much I hate it.
That awful word and I became acquainted before my senior year of high school as I fell in love with indie music and “deep” books written by dead white guys.
This prompted my friends and family to “joke” with me about my preferences being pretentious. I went along with it and at first, it felt harmless. I enjoyed my new interests, what was wrong with that? I even began to “joke” about it myself. Until I began “ironically” wearing pretentious as some badge of honor.
Yeah, it didn’t take too long for that “ironically” part to disappear.