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| Patricia Frischer: Me, Too. Paper Doll Insurrection Series, 2025 |
A Day in the Life of Patricia Frischer (as
might be reported by Dorothy Parker, if she had AI)
• 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.
