I love art—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
As a kid, I loved to color. I had a favorite crayon too—it was red. My favorite color. It was fat and worn down to a nub, but I loved that crayon so much. One day after school, I put it in the basket on my bike, and by the time I got home, it was gone. I cried so hard. It was my first real heartbreak.
I attended vocational high school where I studied graphics. My homeroom was a press shop. We ran the press machines, did bookbinding, developed film. It was fun. After high school, I earned my associate degree in Visual Communications, which led to a career in graphic design and production art.
Despite my background—and my lifelong love of art—I never considered myself an artist. It may sound strange, but my relationship with art has been a tumultuous one. Actually, it’s one of my deepest wounds. I have two. And I’m pretty sure they’re related, but we don’t need to open that can of worms.
Before I graduated high school, I was accepted into a prestigious art school in Boston, Massachusetts. With deep regret, I ended up turning it down. I wasn’t good enough to attend such a school. I wasn’t even an artist.
For the interview, I had to submit a portfolio with specific pieces using specific mediums. So, I put a portfolio together—and somehow, they accepted me. Which surprised me greatly. Why? Because I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t someone who spent time making art. I didn’t even have the art supplies to make the portfolio, my parents had to buy them for me.
I felt like an imposter. I was an imposter. But that’s not what made me turn it down. It was when I met my potential roommate during the tour of the dorm rooms. It wasn’t her; she was very cool. It was what she made me realize about myself—and that I wasn’t cool. Or at least that’s how my 16 year old brain perceived it at the time. The truth was that I didn’t have the life—or social skills—to navigate such a major life change. I should have been able to at that age. But I didn’t.
I didn’t even know how bad my mental health was at the time—that would take years to unravel—I just saw a storm up ahead and said, “Nope. Sorry. I’m not doing this.” My parents were a bit peeved. I had to apologize to the school and to my high school art teacher, who had written a letter of recommendation for me.
Oddly enough, I ended up living in a dorm room a few years later. Only because I was three thousand miles away from home and needed a place to live, but that’s another story, and how I got my associate degree.
I love making art. I always see paintings in my head I want to paint. Paintings I’m not even talented enough to paint. I daydream about having my own art studio and just painting the time away. My heart aches when I think about the years I’ve lost not making art. But I’m here now. And that’s all that matters.
It’s funny—I remember art critiques in college were always so terrifying. It was like being naked in front of an audience. Maybe it’s my age because I don’t give a shit anymore. What was once one of my biggest wounds is now becoming my greatest healer.
I love making art. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
