A Carnival of Mixed Emotions
I walk around every day with pockets full of grief and a lukewarm view of happiness. I can laugh and cry within seconds of each other. I like the viscerality of things, especially art, because they make me feel something. When your heart is coated with the tears of memories, it’s hard to dry it off.
I used to love it when people came into my galleries or my museum and hated the art. I knew how close love and hate were, but it was more about art's ability to create a reaction. That’s what artists are after. That’s what I was after as a curator. Whether good or bad, a reaction is better than a shoulder shrug. If someone talks about hating you, they are thinking about you too much.
I wish I could smell the mothball aroma from my grandmother’s closets again. My room at her house also had a certain smell. Smell has an emotional quality that most people don’t let envelop them. Take a minute to think about the scents of your youth. It will immediately make you feel something.
I’ve been called unemotional by several people in my life. Some knew me before I had children. They never saw me tear up at an Amazon commercial for college moving day like I did yesterday when my son and I went to see The Odyssey. Watery eyes, big popcorn, a bigger version of iced tea, and my oldest kid.
My therapist once asked me what I did to have fun. At the time, my kids were four and two. I mentioned ten things that all had to do with my kids. She tried to redirect me to something that I liked to do for myself. I couldn’t think of anything. I waited my whole life to have fun like this with small creatures built from half my DNA, so other things just weren’t the same on the fun meter.
I rarely melt down. Maybe once every five years when I get spraypainted with the offset power of all I’ve lost. When it’s over, I feel good. Most people don’t cry enough. Just like writing, crying is a way to release the emotion without talking about it. It’s a cakewalk for me to write about grief and a long walk on hot coals on a summer day in Scottsdale to talk about it.
This kid at boarding school once got mad at me for telling him to go back to his room because it was past the dorm bedtime. I was the dorm prefect; I wasn’t just being a douchenozzle. He decided to punch me. Three times in the chest and then once on the jaw. I wasn't tough, but somehow I didn’t move or react, which made him even madder. He got suspended. I lost some of my self-worth, even though it was kind of badass.
I used to like going to sleep in mom’s bed when I woke up in the middle of the night. When my stepdad moved in with us, it was more awkward. So, a lot of the time, I would go into their room and sleep on the floor with my two dogs, Bert and Ernie. I felt lonely and wonderful at the same time.
© Jonathan Greene, August 29, 2026
