When I picture myself as an artist, I don’t see the guy hunched over an iPad with four dogs begging for attention. No. I see a future version of me — the eccentric, mysterious kind of artist people whisper about but never quite understand.
Picture it: Oscar — the elusive, exclusive genius rarely spotted in public. When he does appear, he’s unforgettable. He might even wear a wig. Not an Andy Warhol wig, obviously. Shorter. Cooler. Whiter. Kind of like if Einstein went to therapy and got a better haircut.
One day, Oscar decides to grace the local coffee shop with his presence. He’s carrying a massive black umbrella — part sun shield, part anti-paparazzi device. As he walks, people stare, whisper, point. He sighs. “The burden of brilliance,” he mutters, adjusting his wig.
After a few weeks of fame, he’s over it. He gets Sia now. He burns the wigs, embraces the bald spot, and trades the eccentric wardrobe for comfort wear. But he keeps the famous friends. Julianne Moore? Practically family. The boys adore her, my husband swears she’s the nicest woman alive, and I just like making her listen to kid stories at dinner.
The artist formerly known as Mysterious Oscar now lives modestly, because art, not mansions. But every two months, he splurges — lavish family trips, dog spa days, five-star nonsense. His friends all own at least one of his pieces. Those who dared sell them? Excommunicated. The rest? Waiting patiently for their investment to skyrocket.
Oscar the artist remains humble, chaotic, and occasionally fabulous — just the way he likes it.