Does it get better?
A story of spiraling about age in regards to hope.
On Halloween this year, I found myself at a house show with some friends. It was your typical DIY basement venue, so between sets, I hung around the kitchen as it got progressively more crowded. At some point in the night, there were reportedly over 200 people. So what I’ll discuss next really makes me wonder how, out of all the people at this party, why this interaction happened to me specifically?
So like I said, I was standing in the kitchen, actually quite deep in a conversation with two of my friends, when this random girl swept me away to talk. It was one of those half-drunk conversations where I don’t even know how it started aside from her divinely choosing me. She asked me the meaning behind my ‘DIVINE FEMININE’ tattoo, and at this point, the conversation shifted a bit. I realized she was sort of what I call “mean flirting,” which I kinda really hate. Like when someone’s messing with you less in a joking way, more in a teasing way. The conversation shifted again when I mentioned that my friends and I were maybe going to a bar or something like that once the show ended. This girl made a pouty face, saying she’s a “baby” so she’s too young to get in and doesn’t have a fake. It’s not like it was an invitation, but alright. So naturally I asked her how old she is and she told me she’s 20 years old. When she reflected the same question to me, I was met with a look of borderline horror. For reference, I’m 24. Through her (probably mean but maybe nervous?) laugh, she said, “Wait, why are you lowkey unc!?” Girl. Somehow, by the next sentence, she did a total 180. Getting all serious, she lowered her voice a bit and asked me- with no ounce of joking in her voice- “Tell me. Be honest. Does it get better?” Cut the cameras. Girl what? I just said yeah and got out of the conversation as fast as I could. Despite how ridiculous and almost comedic that interaction was, I found myself reflecting on her question. Did everything get better after I turned 21?
I remember being 20 and thinking that, aside from being able to legally enter bars, I thought my youth was running out. That, I don’t feel at all now. I feel a lot more put together at 24 than I did at 20. So in that regard, yes, it does get better. But in a lot of ways, I question whether life has gotten any better, or if I have a better understanding of it now. Imagining looking my 20-year-old self in the eyes and telling her that her grandfather, basically a second father of mine, will die of cancer in 2-3 years makes me think, no, it doesn’t get any better. Everything is a little sadder all the time now. There’s a ghost where my beloved Pa once was.
I’ve experienced two horrible breakups this year alone. Sometimes I feel lonelier than I ever have, and even like a failure at times. So it’s a hard question to answer- does it get better? My genuine answer that I wish I could’ve given that girl at the party: You have to hope that it does.
The second anniversary of my grandpa’s death just passed earlier this month. It was a really tough day. The day after, I went to the city for a talk being given by one of my favorite artists, Tracey Emin. I went by myself and had a wonderful solo day bouncing around the city. I even got to the talk early and had time to crochet before it began. The person who bought the aisle seat to my right got there a bit early, too, and struck up a conversation with me about my crochet project. (I love when that happens.). This woman’s name was Wendy, and she was so, so sweet. Very funny and interesting too. She’s exactly the type of person I was hoping to sit next to me, going to something like this by myself. We spoke about my art practice as well as hers. She told me fun stories. We even made comments throughout the talk to each other. At one point during the evening, Emin mentioned that she’s 62, and I heard Wendy say to herself, something along the lines of, “Oh, she’s younger than me.” Not that I really care about her age or anything, but I just really appreciated our conversation and found it really cool that we have so much in common despite our two-decade age gap. Her age never even crossed my mind when we spoke, just how glad I was that we met. The mention of her age did, however, allow me to reflect back on my conversation with the 20-year-old girl from the party. A four-year age gap felt like everything to that girl; it’s a lot of unfamiliar experiences of growing up that happen lightning fast. And forty felt like nothing between Wendy and me, except for how much I have to learn and how I hope to keep my coolness like hers.
So, maybe it does get better. If anyone is to speak to hope, it’s definitely Tracey Emin. She has had an expansive, ever-developing, 40+ year art practice; an extremely successful one in defiance of her traumatic life. Emin’s perseverance despite her circumstances has continually fueled her as an artist, and it’s the reason I find her so inspiring. I relate to her depth of emotion pursued in her practice; it really felt like a once in a life time experience to hear her speak about it. I am ever grateful to her for her existence and dedication to being a lifelong artist. She has no choice. Her art consumes her in a way that causes it to be ever-present. Just as I guess hope has to be ever-present in mine, alongside my art practice, to make me believe everything will continue to get better instead of spiraling out at a house party to a stranger.
WHAT ARE YOU SO FUCKING AFRAID OF, 2001, Tracey Emin