A Day in the Life of Patricia Frischer

 

A Day in the Life of Patricia Frischer (as might be reported by Dorothy Parker, if she had ChatGBT)

• 6–8 a.m. – I wake early, though I refuse to rise before eight on principle. While the rest of the world rushes toward productivity, I conduct bed exercises and read a mystery on Libby. I heroically resist Instagram scrolling, which has the curious ability to devour sixty minutes in three bites. Messages on text, WhatsApp, and Instagram are inspected periodically—one must keep abreast of modern gossip.

• 8–10 a.m. – Breakfast is yogurt with chia seeds and fruit, which sounds healthier than it feels. On chilly mornings I sit in the sun with The New Yorker. I read the art pieces, the cartoons, and anything else that seduces me before my tea gets cold. After that comes the ordinary theater of civilization: dressing, makeup, and persuading the bed to look less like a crime scene.

• 10 a.m.–noon – The email avalanche arrives—60 to 90 notes, all demanding wit, diplomacy, or patience. I answer questions, remind people to list on SDVAN, and occasionally pretend I will get around to my own art career. I have two exhibitions this year, both featuring my Paper Protest Dolls. Invitations to juror shows are declined (mercilessly); invitations to sit on panels are accepted (foolishly). Running the San Diego Art Prize consumes hours with artists, selectors, writers, committees, catalogs, lesson plans, videos, and social media approvals. It is a miracle I remember my own name.

• Noon–2 p.m. – Sometimes I attend a County Commission for Arts and Culture meeting on Zoom, where I raise my digital hand and contribute my two cents—an amount that, if compounded, should soon be worth a dollar. I root enthusiastically for their success.

• 2–3 p.m. – Lunch with my husband Darwin, the day’s principal meal and often its happiest. Leftovers become stir-fries; his chili becomes my chili-mac. There is always salad. Desserts, if they survive dinner parties, are reincarnated as truffle balls dipped in chocolate. One per day keeps decadence respectable.

• 3–4:30 p.m. – A meeting of the North County Arts Network, where I serve as chair. We discuss art, culture, creativity, and how to encourage the entire county to notice them.

• 4:30–7 p.m. – If daylight allows, we attend an art opening. San Diego offers so much art that choosing among it feels like turning down suitors. I arrive early, take photographs before crowds obscure the view, and later write reports for the Picked RAW Peeled blog.

• 7–9 p.m. – The dull but necessary acts of adulthood: laundry, dishes, scheduling doctors, taxes, nonprofit paperwork, accounts, websites. Glamour, thy name is paperwork.

• 9–11 p.m. – Television murmurs in the background while I work in the studio. Mysteries, cooking shows, or anything funny will do. With my hands busy I make art—Paper Protest Dolls or decorated sheets that become greeting cards. No two are alike. Glitter is welcome. A girl must sparkle somewhere.

• 11 p.m.–2 a.m. – The late shift: more emails, editing photographs from exhibitions, posting videos to Instagram (which apparently prefers motion to stillness), researching the shows I’ve seen, and writing blog posts while the impressions are fresh. If sleep interrupts the process, the morning usually brings the missing thought.

Not every day looks quite like this—I pace myself when possible. I celebrate occasions, adore champagne, attend weekly yoga, and walk with Darwin to collect fallen limes from the alley so he can make an excellent whiskey sour. I employ a cleaner and a gardener because my back has begun filing complaints.

Life also includes the occasional drama: a sick friend, a leaky roof, a confused bird trapped in the living room. But as a fully volunteer arts organizer, the days are never empty.

I try to do less. I suspect I never will.

After all, life is not a rehearsal—it’s opening night, and each of us insists on top billing.