Brave Too

OK. Round two. Let’s talk again about bravery.

It arrived as an artist group invite.  It’s a group of “working” artists.  The “working” label is because it is women who are putting their eggs in that basket.  They are actively marketing, applying to shows, creating product lines, working with designers, putting their shingles out in their own spaces, and working really hard to make this art life happen.  This is their day job.

So, I shared gallery space with one of these ladies (Stacy) and got myself an invite.  Yay, me!  What happened was I had this great, encouraging night with a wonderful group of people who absolutely fill my Instagram account with wonderful stuff.  I admire them all.  Really.  But I’m just writing about a few.

You know how sometimes you can be in a big group of people talking and then one person will start talking and everyone kind of stops to listen to her?  Blayne’s like that.  She’s not pushy – not at all – and she isn’t loud. She talked about the difficulties of getting someone to highlight her artwork on their blog, some galleries who were nice and one that wasn’t.  It was like getting it straight from the horse’s mouth.  It WAS getting it from the horse’s mouth.  By “it” I mean experience and honesty and help.

Because we all need a little help.  That’s what struck me.  We were helping each other.  We weren’t holding back; it didn’t feel competitive or uncomfortable.  Christina had worked at a big name gallery and shared her perspective.  The fellow introverts (Bless you, Deonna!) listened and made insightful connections.  Even though we don’t all have the same dream, that night we all were in the same place.  We were working, working hard to follow the dream, whatever that dream looked like for us.

So I found out Blayne was the creator of the email list for that group and I fawned over her and made damn sure I made the next couple of meetings.  Through the generosity of that group, I was included in a show I never would have been included in before.  I watch as they post on social media, let people know a little about their lives, share their accomplishments, learn from their failures.  I learn how to let people in a little more, how to be ok with my own failures, how to share with and nurture other creatives in my circle.  I hope that – when I get to the point where I can create a few opportunities – that I remember this and share that space. 

I hope I get there because the defining attribute of the folks I’m talking about in this little blog is HUSTLE.  Oh my gosh.  I hear them talk and I look at these social media feeds and it makes me freaking exhausted.  Melissa Payne Baker makes a line of paintings --sure!—but also scarves and bags and glasses and sells them in multiple places, does book signings across the country, paints live at events.  Small, beautiful child dressed perfectly in all photos.  Blayne works with a designer to create the perfect painting for an amazing house and future magazine spread in some ridiculously short amount of time, moved to a fantastic loft studio, sells a daily paper line, creates and curates and tremendous, HUGE show as a fundraiser for Children’s hospital.  Beautiful small children.  Also is a photographer. 

They are also younger than I am and in the throws of mommy time.  I mean, when a parent has to be there every second or you have to pay someone to be there every second. 

But in the midst of all this, they have the kindness, the generosity to share.  These women invite me to the shows they start.  They include.  They make the circle wider.  I was – and am – inspired.  They are brave, but they are also kind.

Since I started this essay months ago, Blayne curated and built her massive and successful fundraiser show, the Beacham Series.  I was absolutely honored to participate and, again, was struck by how many wonderful artists she had gathered and fostered.  Soon after the show, Blayne sent a message on IG that she was going to have to step back a bit from the full-time artist world because of all the other things she has in her life that need her attention.  While this made me a little sad, I was sad because the way she said it I felt that she was dejected by this change, like she had let herself down.  I don’t know what actually had to change.  Maybe she and her family were just really exhausted by the whole show process, but from my perch at *cough* 46-yrs-old *cough* I bet it was one of those turning points where you work and you work and you work and you (she) just lost track of how much she accomplished.  Maybe she didn’t fulfill her fundraising goal.  Maybe her husband felt neglected.  Maybe she was feeling some mommy guilt.  I don’t know; I’m totally projecting my own problems on her.  But I do know this: she did something.  She did something really big.  I’m astonished at the huge show she put together, yes.  It was great and a ton of fun and art sold, mine included.  However, I think what she really accomplishes is opening a new path, for making so many artists (and probably other “regular” people too!) feel pretty freaking amazing about themselves.  She shows that some new things are possible.  She essentially created a new “people project” that wasn’t there before, from scratch.  But maybe her biggest win was being able to publicly say it is ok to step back for a minute.  Don’t we all need permission to step back and change direction?

So thank you, art group.  Thank you Stacy for introducing me to Melissa (again?) and to Blayne for putting the email together and folks for hosting.  Thank you all for sharing your journeys.  It makes my journey a little less hard.  I know that’s not world-wide fame or millions of $$$, but I want you to know it matters.  What you do is brave and it is kind.  Carry on.   

Brave One

I feel like I need to preface this by saying, “I don’t know her.”  And it is true, until yesterday she was a stranger.  I’d never heard her voice or seen her face. 

Maybe she doesn’t feel so much like a stranger today.  Today she seems like who I should have been if I’d had more balls.  And by balls, I mean courage.  I am vicariously living through her courage.

Let me step back.  “She” is Karen.  She’s starting an art center.  Pretty much single-handedly she’s researched, found a location, is funding, and is building (or her husband is building) an art center.  I’m from a small town.  She’s from the small town across the river.  She’s not “from money.”  In fact, her dad is much of the reason this is happening, I think.  He worked at one of the mills on the river for years, but he had the gift of making things.  He worked in wood and hoped to retire and be an artist.  He died young.  Never retired.  This art center is his legacy.  His daughter is a teacher.  His son-in-law is a teacher.  Or they were, until they quit to make this art center.

Her dream is to make a place where her dad could have been an artist -- before he had the money and the time.  She wants to provide affordable studio space to people from both sides of the river and both sides of the tracks.  It’s not huge, but it is big.  It’s important. 

Why do I care?  I don’t even live in this town anymore.  I live in Atlanta.  We have the Goat Farm, Tannery Row, the Artist Resource Center, MINT and MET, the B Complex, etc., etc.

I care because I’m pretty risk-adverse.  I understand the fear that leads people away from a life of art.  I didn’t really pursue it until I could afford to do so.  I didn’t consider making art on a big scale until I had a space in the house where I could really make a mess.  I’m super lucky.  I have a house.  I had an unfinished room with electricity.  What if I didn’t? 

When I’m working on a piece of art and some areas of it are working and some parts aren’t, I often tell myself “Be brave.”  For me, that means, get the big brush back out, paint over some of the parts you think you love.  See how the painting changes.  Allow it to become something else than what you had in mind. 

I’m getting better about doing that with a painting, but let’s be honest, that’s because you can redo a painting.  I’m still learning how to do that in life.

 

That is why I have an art crush on Karen.  She’s being brave in life.  She’s putting her inheritance on the line.  She found a cool, old brick building with old walls and huge, curved steel supports.  Somebody donated the electrical work and they’re barely gonna make ends meet, even with help.  They’ve planned the studios, the bathrooms, the office.  She’s working with the city for all the parking.  She’s setting up phase two and three: a shared space for a classroom that will be non-profit.  She’s gotten darkroom equipment and a kiln.  She’s not doing this thing half-assed.

It took me until 40 to consider art as a possibility.  I don’t know how old she is, but Karen isn’t waiting.  She’s doing this thing now.  She’s taking a big old swan dive into this possibility.  It’s risky, but it is also amazing.  She’s acting on her dream -- making the dream possible for other artsy folks around this town. 

I don’t know her.  I didn’t know her dad.  But damn, I bet he’s proud.

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If you’d like to see the art center, it is The Heritage Art Center in Columbus, GA.  She’s not asking for money, but she is ready for people to reserve studio space.  If you’ve been wanting a place to make art, if you’ve been scared to make the leap, consider this jumping-off-point.  If you are an art patron, this place will eventually be filled with artists; remember when you’ve got a project.  If you aren’t ready to rent a studio, but would be interested in having a place to come work on bigger projects, there will be a shared space for you, too.  If you have ties in the Columbus non-profit arena, then she might be able to use you on the classroom phase. 

I think this is a great opportunity to help someone help others.  Support the Arts.  Support people who support the arts. 

If you don’t go see Karen, go see Dee Dee at Highland Galerie.  Or Fiddleheads.  Or visit the Bartlett center.  Or go to a student show at CSU.  Or support the Columbus Collective.  This little town by the river is experiencing a bit of a renaissance.  Couldn’t be happier.  Go, Columbus, go!

Small Time

I am a small-time artist.  I don’t say that to insult myself.  Actually, it has only been in the last year or so that I’ve been able to own up to calling myself an “artist.”  I used to call myself a painter or just say I was artsy.  I say that because it is an honest assessment of where I am.  I will never be a Banksy, Jean-Michel Basquiat, or Yayoi Kusama.  I'm not tearing up the art scene in SoHo or London.  I'm a suburban housewife who can't seem to not create stuff.  I think that stuff is pretty good.  However, I really struggle with how much to expect from myself.  Am I good enough to put myself out there?  If I think I am, I risk a certain level of delusion and possibly alienating a future resource.  If I don’t believe in myself enough, I risk losing an opportunity. 

I’m proud of where I am.  Please don’t get me wrong.  I am absolutely thrilled with the progression of this art life.  In several years, I have moved from being a mom of young kids who occasionally hacked out a couple of paintings in the lawnmower storage area (one lightbulb hanging from the ceiling) to being able to paint nearly every day in a “real” studio space, complete with doors, windows, and many (many!) light sources.  I sell through friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, and complete strangers.  I'm in cute shops.  I'm in galleries.  I am no longer losing money (yay?) and though I couldn’t pay our mortgage, I might have been able to pay for our utilities this year, maybe our groceries.  Groceries are a big deal.  I do have a 14-yr-old boy, you know. 

And although I can acknowledge I’m small-time, small-time is bigger than amateur – or non-existent.  For the first time, I have expectations for myself.  When I didn’t have any expectations, every tiny success was a wonderful surprise.  Since I’ve started this path, each year I sell more, participate in more shows, buy more materials.  What happens when I have that inevitable down year?  I invite this trouble because I had a down December for the first time ever.  A great year!  A miserable December.  If you didn’t know, 4^th quarter for artists is pretty much go-time.  Usually.  It’s like Prime Day, for a month.  I make small pieces, create ornaments, and print cards.  I have open houses and take new work to galleries.  And this year?  Crickets.  It’s tough. 

It’s tough – and it is discouraging.  I don’t do well with discouraging.  On top of that, I didn’t get into a show that I really wanted to join.  I’ve been working on this big series of mixed media pieces that I love and really have enjoyed making.  I was hoping they’d get to debut together at this show.  Now, I’m looking for a new place for them to go.  It’s a blow.

It’s a blow that I will absorb.  Why?  Because my kids were in the car when I got the email about not getting in the show.  They heard me talk about how disappointing it is, how much I was counting on it.  I want them to see me deal with it.  To pick up and go on and find the new path.  If this blog is about parenting, about me, about art, then this moment is also about those things.  I’ve been turned down for shows before.  I’ve not made the sale.  I’ve had commissions walk away.  Somehow this feels bigger. 

I think it feels bigger because I am at this turning point.  I’m invested.  Literally.  I’ve upgraded my studio.  I’ve created a little gallery space in the basement.  I’ve bought inventory software.  I’ve bought some IG ads.  I’m going all in. 

It’s scary.

What if I’m not good enough?  What if all this time and effort has brought me to a place where everyone is rolling their eyes behind my back: There she goes again: talking about her “art”?  She calls herself an artist.  Crazy Shelley.

I am crazy.  No question.  I’m not technically diagnosed with anything; I am mostly weird.  I wonder too much.  That makes me crazy, I think.  At least it makes me crazy in the world I live in. 

It also is part of what makes me a small-time artist.  I’m not examining a crazy world; I’m not living in NYC or some exotic location.  My art is not terribly outrageous.  I'm not making sense of a genocide that I witnessed first-hand or illustrating an obscure culture that I'm reviving.  My world is very, very uncrazy -- like Leave It To Beaver uncrazy.  I’m examining my uncrazy world and still seeing it as crazy. 

I need another word.  Unusual.  Jarring.  Beautiful.  Puzzling. 

I’m an observer and have spent my life trying to reconcile the discordance I feel between light and interest and growth vs. human self-destruction.  Everyday beauty constantly reminds me that life is bigger than we make it.  The contradictions and connections don't depend on glamour or grittiness. I write about it.  I paint about it. 

So this translation of how I see the world is what I make.  It is for sale.  And rejection of what I make sometimes feels like a rejection of me. This is why I had such a hard time sending my writing to literary magazines.  It is why I usually make safe choices.  It is why I “became an artist” later in life.  It is why I am quiet. 

I’m small-time because I am just now getting it together, just now being gentle enough with myself to introduce myself to others as an artist.  I'm small-time because my art might be saying things that people have already said – maybe they even said it better --but I'm saying it in my voice.  I’m small-time because I’m OK with just getting my foot in a few doors, because it is a business when I’m not quite a businessperson.  I’m small-time because it’s the bravest thing I’ve done for myself. 

So far.