Today I'm Not an Artist (story by Jill inspired by Jennifer's image)

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Jennifer gave me this photo on October 23, 2021. Because my brain is twisted and because I watch a lot of true crime shows, I immediately thought of a serial killer taking a token from each kill and putting them together in this work of art. But after asking Jennifer about the image and her saying it was from the Women of Visions 40th anniversary celebration of Black female visual artist, I immediately decided not to go quite as twisted! So, I pulled out an old character from It Felt Wrong posted on July 30, 2021, and here's what I came up with.


Today I'm Not an Artist

    I used to be an artist. I mean, I’m using that term loosely, but that was truly what I loved to do—planned on doing with my life. 

    And then I met Dale … 

    And he became what I loved doing the most—at least at first. 

    Things were exciting and dangerous in the beginning. Then they stopped being exciting, but by that point we were far too deep into all of it. And there no longer seemed to be an exit strategy because one favor had led to another. And then we owed someone this or that. And we had done our last job about 10 times, but then someone had come out of the woodwork with something on us, so we couldn’t say no. 

    Now it’s six years later … And here I still am.

    Still with Dale.

    But I remember, during the first job, I had noticed a tiny picture of a mother and a child in the master bedroom. 

    I don’t know. I was just drawn to it for some reason. 

    We weren’t there to steal pictures, but I remember noticing it on the dresser while dumping drawers into my bag from the large jewelry box sitting beside the photo.

    And I kept looking at it.

    Eventually, between drawers, I had picked up the photo and had tucked it into my hoodie pocket. 

    I mean, my mom had died when I was five, and the kid looked to be about that age. So maybe that was why. 

    Anyway, for whatever reason, I’ve taken a small photo or something little from all of our jobs. And I have the photos and things tucked away in a box, hidden in a duffle bag in the closet. 

    I dream that someday I’m going to get away from Dale and this bizzaro life that we’ve created, and I’m going to make something—some art—from the treasures. Hopefully it will remind me that I’m in a better place, and that I don’t want to—don't have to—go back to this life. 

    But as I sit on the bed, beside Dale, trying to wake him for today’s job, I sigh heavily and think, “Well, today’s not that day.”

    Then I reach over and jiggle his leg. “Get up, Dale. We have to get outta here soon.” And I scan the room for something to wear.


—Jill Cullen (written 11.1.21)




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