I had a dream I was changing clothes in Johnny Carson's modest bathroom, whose house I was staying at while I rode out the quarantine. The clothes were someone else's, and I put on two mismatched dresses, and looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. The outfit looked awful, but I didn't know what else I could do. I had no other options. I looked at Johnny's belongings—his hair brush poking out of an open drawer, the towel on the rack that had another towel hanging on top of it. I'd switched their order on the hook, and then switched them back before I left the room; I didn't want him to notice anything being out of place in his space.
There is a palpable shift that's happened seemingly among us with the shift to self-isolation. It's even sprung up a new vocabulary—shelter in place, self-quarantine, social distancing. Though in many ways, my daily life hasn't changed at all. As an artist living here in San Miguel, and as an introvert, I spend most of my time alone, anyhow. But I suppose the shift is in the ability or freedom to make other choices. With that restriction, suddenly that's what we want to do—to go to the cafe, be with friends, go to the party. In a way, it gives me the excuse to do what I should likely be doing anyway—staying home to paint, work on photographs, to produce.
I remember learning of a study that was done about how the customers who had five varieties of jelly to choose between to sample at a grocery store, instead of the group that had nine options, were more likely to buy a jar. Why? Their conclusion was that people are overwhelmed with too much choice. I've thought of his idea often because I think it relates to life in many situations. In our current one, our lack of choice can be a wonderful way to crystallize what really matters, and where we truly want to invest ourselves. And like the limited choices I had of clothes to put on in the legendary comedian's bathroom—it requires us to get creative. For an artist, it would seem that more ideas, more materials, more variables would be a good thing, but, in fact, having restrictions—like you can only use cardboard (because you have nothing else), or you can only have three colors, for instance—means that you have a well-defined structure from which to grow from. It's like a child-sized chair for a child. It's comfortable. It's perfect.
I like thinking that this is a time to work on my projects without feeling bad or guilty for not engaging with the wider world. I think of it like a series of snow days—it's a gift where I can hunker down, concentrate, and work, while still being able to engage with friends and loved ones through the incredible technology that we still have available to us.