The Art of Becoming (Part I)

Cowardice… indifference… self-deprecation.

Ingrid was sat indoors at a café, bohemian in aesthetic more than atmosphere, drinking her overpriced iced chai latte as she tried to understand how she came to be this dull, dry, mediocre excuse for a human being. She decided that it was probably a combination of the three; cowardice being the superior of the vices. She frequented this café; ordered the same drink and stereotyped the employees in her mind as vegans, Instagram poets, ceramists, kombucha brewers, and occasionally someone that looked to be a Renaissance man/woman possessing the knowledge and capacity for all of those things. Ingrid used the phrase generously, the Renaissance being a birthing of new art, literature, and forms of thinking; the current culture produced memes. This was mostly born of bitterness. These people might represent subculture clichés to her, but they exuded free-spirited wild flowers. Ingrid was a wall flower living in her mind wallpapered with what-ifs.

She was nearing the bottom of her latte; the ice had long disappeared and the condensation on the outside of the glass was wetting her fingers as she stared at the oil painting to her left. The subject was a nude small breasted woman lying on a bed. She wasn’t ostentatiously posed or of significant beauty; it looked to be an intimate and natural moment of life beheld by her lover. Ingrid considered it to be a lovely study of form and a good use of lines. The wrinkles in the bed sheets were interesting to look at; even more so than the naked woman. The colors were earthy, organic. It was calming. Ingrid had overlooked this simple piece of art; she hadn’t allowed herself to look, really look, at anything for months now. She studied art history at UCLA and graduated with her Bachelor’s degree nearly two years ago. She thought that she would be in the process of opening her own gallery by now, but she was selling expensive ethically non-fast-fashion clothing in a shop east of the Arts District with a co-worker that drank her weight in coconut La Croix, which was less than you would think, and took mirror selfies each shift. Ingrid would exert minimum energy when interacting with her. The impression she allowed her co-worker to have of her was like the default home screen on a new iPhone, pleasant enough, but not personable or terribly interesting. Ingrid hadn’t invested in others or herself for some time.

She was withdrawing from the people in her life and would hide from herself if possible. Ingrid couldn’t tolerate her roommate Hester anymore. They were close and Ingrid loved her deeply, but she was exhausting to be around. Hester was doing well in life; everything was coming together for her effortlessly. Things seemed to happen for her and to her. Ingrid was irritated with herself for being this pathetically feeble in character and devoid of self-esteem. She constantly compared herself to her good friend and resented her for all of the good things in her life. Hester must have noticed that Ingrid was being more introverted and reclusive, but she was busy with her boyfriend with the all-American looks. They were obnoxiously smitten and he was always at the apartment; they constantly were validating one another and overusing the simplistic endearment “babe.” Ingrid thought they probably came at the same time and then commenced in post-coital spooning. While she didn’t necessarily covet these particular things, she wanted to be desired. She hadn’t been properly acknowledged by someone since the summer after her graduation. This was somewhat understandable. It’s not like she was the best version of herself. She needed a rebirth and most definitely a sexual renaissance.