I've always felt like an artist, at least on the inside.
I grew up in a creative family. My dad’s an architect, and my mom’s an artist.
I was lucky to go to a lot of museums as a kid. I remember seeing all these different examples of the vastness of human imagination and experience. Claes Oldenburg’s Swiss army knife and Joan Mitchell’s brushstrokes stand out.
If those names mean nothing to you, don’t worry. Art is for everyone. I was just fortunate to have access to a certain kind early on. On the other hand, do Google it because both of those things are awesome.
Being at a museum felt to me like what I imagine a lot of people feel in church.It felt important and meaningful and like I was part of something larger than myself.
I desperately wanted to be involved. I wanted to have something to say that was worth putting within those hallowed walls.
It was a scary proposition though. I never felt good enough for the art world, and I questioned whether the art world as I knew it was truly doing much good for the world. It seemed very separate from a lot of the world’s major problems.
I struggled with these questions for many years. I made and studied art, and I did and studied a lot of other things too. I backpacked; I farmed; I baked; I wrote; I learned French. I got one agroecology degree and one liberal arts degree. I got a job at a farm-to-table restaurant and a volunteer gig at the local meditation center. I kept making art. I even showed a little and sold a few pieces.
Then I decided to take a year to travel. I spent the first part in India and the second part in Southwestern France. And there I stayed. I fell in love with the place, and later on I fell in love with a person. I translated books, volunteered at the local meditation center (I’m good at finding those), and kept making art. I built a life with my partner and my stepdaughter, and we decided to grow our family.
When I was six months pregnant with our first child, I landed in the hospital in preterm labor.
I didn’t know if my son would be born in the next hour or the next day or not right now. I didn’t know if he would survive or if his body would function or if he would be completely fine.
I remember being alone in the hospital at midnight asking myself, “What do I do?”
“What can I do?”
I tried to stay calm. I rationalized. I prayed. I begged.
Amid the chaos of my emotions, two thoughts formed in a conversation with my unborn child.
One: In this moment, all I can do is wait and try to be brave. I’m here, and I love you.
Two: If we both make it out of here alive, I promise, I’m going to be an artist.
I’ve wondered a lot since that night why that thought came to me.
Why art was the bargaining chip I felt I could offer to the universe and my child in exchange for the thing I wanted most—for him to stay with me.
Why, when I needed to prove to myself that I could be brave, I chose art as the cornerstone of my strength.
I think it’s because when I peel back all the layers of ideas I have about myself and the world, it’s the thing that’s naturally there.
It’s what I know.
It’s what I have to offer.
I’ve always wondered why. If it’s really useful. If I’m really any good at it.
I’ve always been afraid to try and fail, like so many of us are.
I’ve always been afraid to put something I care about into the world and find the world laughing at me.
And yet, when could the world be laughing at me more than in the moment when it was about the take the most precious thing I knew away from me?
I offered up the only thing I had and the bravest thing I could think of. Committing to art was what I was most afraid of, other than losing the people I love, and if the universe was going to make me choose, the choice was easy.
Apparently, the universe accepted my bargain. William was born two-and-half months later just shy of full term.
Since then, I have been working on keeping up my end of the deal.
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