I learned what dilettantes are: I don’t like them

I heard the word Dilettante, and realized I didn’t know what it meant. While listening to River of Tears,  I looked up the definition.

 “A person who cultivates an interest such as the arts without real commitment or knowledge.”

This definition gave me such comfort. Since my teen years I would get livid with girls playing fashion. The pretty ones who just wanted to get dressed. The silly ones who thought this life was Project Runway. I would feel  insulted by  those who saw me as one of those girls. They would  ask how I could make money in this industry. They would tell me I was dumb for dreaming of FIT and Parson’s. They thought my analysis of fashion week was shallow. It feels good to have a real word to communicate who I am not.

I aspire to be a producer not a consumer.

This is not a hobby.

Yes, I have a passion for fashion, but nothing about it is shallow or cliche.

This passion means more than calluses from designer shoes. It has been tetanus shots after falling asleep at a sewing machine and having the needle zip through my nail and lodge itself in my finger. It has been sobbing on the kitchen floor after negotiating with my building manager because my photoshoot cannibalized my rent money.  This passion carried 25 yards of soft shell on my back through the streets of Portland. It filled my belly and energized my body the summer I subsisted on Ramen and .49 cent cheeseburgers so that I could pay for my overpriced design school. I can’t count the times I pulled it together, abracadabra-ed the most hopeless situation with this passion.

Maybe as many times as I have felt breathless when viewing couture; acheing to touch it and understand how to  make something so beautiful.

I think that’s what love is.

To have that love, that comes from the purest, realest oldest part of who I am reduced to folly infuriates me.

Forgive me for sinking deep in my feelings. Blame this Alessia Cara song. Blame the hot headed honesty I’ve inherited. Or not. It is what it is. I rather be that girl: angry, crazy, hungry, bleeding, laughing, than be anyone else. Cuz if I’m her then, when I’m gone, you’ll know that I’m done. That I gave it all, and did my best. My mom always said she didn’t care if I got A’s in school as long as I did my best. So if I am a F student because my job isn’t at a desk and doesn’t require  a ph’d,  I will still feel honor roll accomplishment. Because with this passion, I do my best.

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