I used to use the word, artist, sparingly.  A real artist was one who exhibited paintings and sculptures in galleries.  At that time I was influenced by the man I married.  I was young, I didn't know better.  "Sunday painters" and "dilettantes" and "crafters" were disparaged.

When I look around now at so many of my friends and acquaintances, I see artists everywhere.  Some are professional visual artists, photographers, and illustrators of books.  Others are artists of home decor, gardens, cooking, and design.   

I'm a passionate devoted dabbler.  An amateur--a word that literally means one who "loves to do." I love to do.  Sometimes I order three rugs and send two back.  I spend hours choosing the right chairs for the new David Marsh dining table I ordered this week.  Rearranging what I have and finding replacements for the pieces I sell on Facebook Marketplace has taken up my blog writing time. 

While I've made a few collages (and intend to make more) I realize that my most enjoyable and sustained efforts involve playing house.

Flipping through my digital photos, I see my house in all its iterations over the past twenty five years.  When I found the house, it had an orange and avocado kitchen.  The walls looked like they'd been painted by stoned teenagers.  Brown carpet covered all the floors, and the entire house smelled of bottled cherry intended to mask the smell of made by numerous cats owned by the previous renter. 

I loved it even then.  I loved the leafy neighborhood and I didn't mind the concrete block exterior of the ugliest house on the street--mine.  What I loved most were the prospects of change, a project that would engage me for decades.  I needed the palette of a downtrodden house and my house desperately needed some artistry.  

So that's what I've been doing the last two weeks, polishing up the 2024 iteration of the happy little house I live in.