Dear Prudence,
On Valentine’s Day, I read the note my husband of three years wrote me for me alongside with the usual box of cherry cordials (my favorite). For context, alongside my day job, I am an artist. I create art in a number of media including short story writing, poetry, oil on canvas, watercolors, graphite, and charcoal. I also dabble in digital art. My husband has a peripheral awareness of the art world, but his hobbies tend to lean toward traditionally masculine ones (sports, video games, podcasting). I think our different passions suit us really well. I learn new things from him and his expertise as he does from my expertise.
So imagine my surprise when he gave me my Valentine’s Day card with the most beautiful, heartfelt love letter that I have ever read. He struck every chord, putting into words things about myself I thought I held closer to my chest, and he did it succinctly and expertly. He made me feel seen, adored, worshipped, and whole by this letter. Now I am dealing with feelings of envy and inadequacy. An art form I have been studying, researching, practicing, applying, editing, failing at, and (rarely) succeeding in since high school, and it turns out my meathead husband has had a natural talent for it this WHOLE TIME! I asked him when he wrote this, and he told me during a meeting the day before. He said he tried to make me an origami animal, got frustrated, and channeled those feelings of love for me and this is what came out. One strategy. One draft. One attempt. I could scream.
I am ashamed to say that when he was out walking the dog, I searched his browsing history for AI. I was devastated (but not wholly surprised) when I couldn’t find anything. He knows how I feel about AI’s place in art (it doesn’t have one). I looked through the trash by his desk to see if he was at least lying about his number of attempts, and I found week-old receipts and notes, but nothing about how my eyes are the tether to his moral compass. I don’t know what to do. I feel hopeless. I want to give up. I have been producing art for consumption for decades and none of it has come close to his letter. I want to cherish it, rip it up, set it on fire, and turn the ashes into a piece, but that would not undo the knowledge I have that my husband is a natural talent. And it would probably hurt his feelings. He seemed very proud of it. How do I move past this? The awareness of my mediocrity is not exactly a source of inspiration or insight at the moment.
—Mediocre in Manhattan