Paint.

I've finally given up trying to separate the husband's studio clothes from his "nice" clothes. After many anal retentive dreams of clearly labeled drawers and typewritten rules and exhaustive discussions of "These are your good jeans and these are your studio jeans," I declare FAIL.

I've hung out with many of Chris' artist friends and few, if any, go out in public with paint or gel medium or gunk or ___(fill in the blank) on their clothes. But Chris, my dearest husband, doesn't seem to have any clothes untouched by his studio practice. Well, except for his suit from our wedding which hides in the deep recesses of our closet protected by a Macy's garment bag and a "STAY AWAY" sign.

I have to hand it to him though. He could give a rat's ass if anyone sees him with paint all over his clothes, his fingernails or in his hair. It must be a badge of honor. A sign clearly stating, "I just spent 15 hours in the studio today possibly making unadulterated beauty (or a float). What did you do?" And I love him for the fact that he does what he loves to do passionately and with reckless (really, really reckless) abandon each and every day.

Still, I'm sure I will buy him a pair of "good jeans" (as I did just a few months back to see them worn during 4 consecutive nights of papier-mâché and now ruined). Next time I do though, I'll document their rapid decline from nice jeans to drop cloths. Until then, a few examples of what I am talking about:

The "Good" Jeans


The "Going Out" Shoes


The "It's Okay to Wear in Public" Hoodie


The Pièce de Résistance

The Frank Zappa shirt he's probably been wearing for the last 15 years.