A [New] Beginning

Reflecting on the then and the now, and the me who is emerging.

I struggled knowing where to start with my very first publication on Substack, a platform I am still rather unfamiliar with, but, here we are. As the most monumental happening in the world of me for a very long time, I thought my recent Solo Show would be a fair jumping-off point. I still have many thoughts swirling about in my head from it, and I know that in subsequent posts I will have even more to add, but for now we will dive into the before, the during, and the after.

THE BEFORE:

The last time I had the opportunity to have a solo gallery exhibition was in 2016, at NEXT Gallery. I had utterly no idea what I was doing, and was scared shitless. In some ways I took the opportunity for granted; as a member of the co-operative gallery in Denver, CO, our monthly dues afforded us each a yearly opportunity to show our work outside group shows and the small works space. At the time, I was freshly a second-time college dropout after the stresses of trying to balance full-time work and studio classes and my [then] undiagnosed ADHD threatened to pull me all the way under. I was also expending a large amount of energy to hide my worsening depression and so when I was accepted as a gallery member, that seemed like the best ship to jump onto. I had also become disenchanted by the academic realm with seemingly out-of-touch professors who had rigid ideas of what art was or was supposed to be, on top of the pre-existing disappointment that my school did not offer an illustration major. I was as active as I could be in the Denver art scene as a person with debilitating anxiety could be: I was an independent free-thinking 24 year old, galleries hadn’t faced the hardships of 2020, and it was still a year before I was hospitalized for what would be diagnosed as autoimmune hepatitis and cirrhosis (an event that changed my world irrevocably).

Despite my mental health struggles, the success of selling several pieces at my very first gallery show had injected me with hope and unrealistic expectations of how the art world worked. However, like the rest of the world I had no clue how much the impending outbreak of a global pandemic would alter everything familiar, and the ways some things would never recover nor return. This was the Summer of 2016, and a former game show host had never been allowed to occupy the highest seat in my nation’s government at that point in time, though I have always been very concerned with the imbalance of power; it was always easier to advocate for someone else’s suffering so as to not draw attention to my own, and art offered an avenue to do so.

My first solo show, Scratching the Surface, explored feminist-informed experiences (like an abusive relationship I’d endured some years prior) through a series of female portraits done in colored pencil and watercolor. I remember choosing to do all white matting and framing because that’s what you do when you’re being serious about being in a gallery. I framed my artist statement and got custom vinyl lettering done. I printed the wrong year on my show postcards that I designed myself. I made goat cheese dip. I spent the night hating my haircut and focusing my energy on standing in such a way that my outfit didn’t make me feel any more self-conscious than I already did in the spotlight. I was so scared of seeing whether anyone liked what they saw when looking at my heart poured out onto those white walls that I forgot to enjoy or appreciate any of it. I would end up leaving the gallery several months afterwards, when a hike in fees and commission made it untenable while I was between employment.

It broke my heart to see galleries shuttering during the shut-down, and arts districts disintegrating over the years that followed. The rise of AI has added an even more insidious layer to the ways in which creatives struggle to be paid for their labors and vision, and I’ve watched esteemed artists - whose careers I have both admired and envied - reveal how dry the well has become. It’s scary, and disheartening. “Making it” as an artist has always been something we have had to claw for, a pipe dream, but what boon social media once offered has now turned into a gladiator-style battle just for increasingly meager engagement.

I spent many years lost in the fog of imposter syndrome and internalized gaslighting. My opinion of myself was notably quite negative for the majority of my life; it turns out when you spend decades masking and performing and chipping away bits of you-ness to fit into all these different molds of who you think you’re supposed to be, it becomes very difficult to trust in your self. Despite agreeing that I had a fair talent for the arts and a creative, intelligent mind, I still assumed most people were either being polite in their compliments, or, were not cultured enough to know the sheer breadth of breathtaking art out in the world to provide an accurate opinion on the subject; in other words, they just didn’t know any better. I was also victim to the thought process that in order for my art to be “good”, it had to stop looking like I made it — and, slightly ironically, that my lack of a cohesive style or chosen medium was also responsible for a lack of success. I solemnly believed that I could [would] never be good enough.

I know by now you’re wondering, Where the hell is this person going with all this? I thought this was about a recent exhibition… I promise we’re going to get there. I’m just a firm believer that context is paramount.

Now, one thing that might make surviving a pandemic even more fraught is starting over as an adult in a new city, a thousand miles away from every bit of community you had cobbled together for yourself, which is exactly what we did in October of 2021. My ingratiation into the Columbus art scene has been timid and faltering over the past four years as I navigated: a post-pandemic world as someone with multiple autoimmune diseases; trying to find the time and energy for house renovations in our outdated 1923 home; bankruptcy; crippling loneliness and grief; trying to make friends as an unemployed adult… Trauma is like a sea of weeds, with long spindly roots that burrow into the core of your being. You dig down deeper and somehow find that the white, mealy tendrils have even infiltrated down into your phalanges. But as one flexes the muscle of self-reflection, the courage needed for vulnerability becomes easier to conjure and bit by bit, you start planting something new.

Two years after arriving in my birth state’s capital city, I was selected to participate in my first ever live-painting event: Scrawl Mural Festival. At the time, I firmly did not consider myself a painter. I had also never worked at that scale before, certainly not with any amount of detail; here I was, scared shitless all over again (a recurring state of being). Despite the weekend being frigid and drenched, it was an unforgettable experience. When you are creating out in the open, there’s no chance of hiding your head away and physically separating artist from the art. I won’t go as far as to say I suddenly enjoyed finding myself on display, but it was incredibly rewarding to receive such positive feedback while my mini-mural came together by my shivering hands. The child who used to body-dive to shield their sketchbook from curious eyes was pleasantly surprised looking on from the past as we engaged with excited passers-by, had folks smile and take pictures of my incomplete creation, and be surrounded by other artists with their faces just as buried, happily, in their work. It was a food I hadn’t known my soul needed.

Once you survive one previously-considered-impossible hurdle, it cracks the door open to all these other things you had filed away long ago because you deemed yourself unworthy or incapable. The positive experience I had with Scrawl (and encouragement from other lovely local artists) gave me the confidence to apply to be a muralist for 934 Fest - a yearly neighborhood block party put on by 934 Gallery. I had already survived an event in which I painted faster than ever before to finish in time - something that is a bit of a rarity when you have so many ideas running through your head at all times. If I had that in me, then surely I could manage a full-size mural over the course of the summer.. So, I submitted. And I waited. And I figured nothing would come of it, but then there it was: T H E E M A I L — the email saying I had been accepted. It was actually happening. I waited for that same terror to strike me and while there were definitely the fluttering of nerves behind my ribcage, there was now another sensation there — the drumming of excitement.

Pause. Breathe.
You made it past the before times; I know, that was a lot. Apparently I had a lot more to say than either of us thought, but, now we get to shift into the show itself. The promised land, if you will.

THE DURING:

Around the same time as my application to participate in 934 Fest, I also threw my hat in the ring to be considered for a solo exhibition with 934 Gallery the following year. While initially the acceptance emails were set to be sent out in October - a long wait-time already - it did not actually arrive in my inbox until December. By this time, I had mostly given up on receiving positive news, assuming I had been ghosted like with so many opportunities before. When the acceptance email did finally arrive, I was beside myself — for more than one reason. You see, upon filling out my application I missed one tiny yet monumental word when asked about availability: “When are you NOT available for a show?” I am bolding this word here for extra emphasis because at the time, it completely slipped by my radar and so while I thought I was selecting the months in the latter half of the year so as to have plenty of time… here I was staring down an opening date of April 18th... Four months away. Four months to complete and frame EIGHT pieces. Eight complicated, highly personal, some-not-even-remotely-started pieces. Pieces in mediums I’d never worked in before (or at least not since college). Four months to do what I thought I’d have double the time to complete — no sweat! Never before had I ever worked at the pace that would be required, but, when an opportunity like this knocks upon your door you put your everything toward it.

Shoutout to my insanely patient and supportive husband Daniel for literally carrying our little family through the entire first third of the year. I truly could not have shut myself away in my studio if I didn’t trust that he would be holding our world together in the background.

Now, it’s not like I’d not been working towards my show over the course of 2024. My watercolor painting Crying Wolf had already been completed at the beginning of the year; Killing Moon had been in process for a while at this point (though in a fairly different iteration); I had started the needlework on my embroidered piece Now That I’m A Woman back in March… Last year had plenty to throw on my plate. Bankruptcy was a fun new milestone for my thirties. Unable to overcome the overwhelm of trying to make a business of my art, I returned to the workforce for the first time in 3 years (made possible by finally becoming medicated for my ADHD). Just several days into said new job, my husband ruptured his Achilles and needed emergency surgery, followed by months of prescribed bed rest and PT. Not only were our caregiver roles suddenly reversed, but this also meant I’d be fully on my own for the completion of my first-ever full-scale public mural. NBD, right?

As a neurodivergent creator, my process is not always what one might consider “organized”. Inspiration strikes often, and frequently leads me down some new tangent to explore; anything and everything can be alluring, on any number of levels. What this means practically is that I exist in a Level 4 Hoarder situation in my brain, and finding that thing I was working on or that idea I had in my hands a minute ago can be hard to chase down after a while. Classic “I’ve started more things than you’ve finished”. I’ve also historically had a difficult time setting boundaries for myself, and feeling eternally pulled to never disappoint anyone ever. I truly want to do all the things. My way of combatting this became centered around the idea that what I can do is what I can do. What gets made is what I make. Step away from needing to hit the target you set for yourself, just focus on the steps immediately ahead of you. The focus and dedication I found within myself to complete my largest work to date, and create something I actually fucking love - and watched others love - shifted gears long rusted. Call it confidence, call it audacity; either way, I was doing this.

Here’s where I give a run-down of the making process for the remaining pieces between January and April. Trying to make this more of a 5K situation and not a marathon; deep dives can come in subsequent posts.

My logic was to start with the piece I was both furthest along with and would be the most time-consuming. Embroidery comes together stitch by stitch, strand by strand. Single strand, in this particular case. Another pacing factor was that I had NOT set out with a color map; each stitch happened with picturing the way light would fall on the human form, and translating each value to a thread hue or combination of threads. So… many… calculations… I have never been so grateful for attending figure drawing nights - and for having started this piece before I had any notions of a solo exhibition.

Next up was the second-most laborious creation on the roster: my first ever attempt at spun-cotton sculpture to create a miniature carousel version of Odin’s steed of legend, Sleipnir. The concept came about years prior, but it wasn’t until seeing a video showing the process of subbing cotton in the papier-maché method (water + glue over a frame) that made me realize it needed to be a three-dimensional object. Now, before this sculpture, I had practically zero experience in 3D art; drawing and watercolors are my comfort zone. Despite this fact, one of the most surprisingly difficult obstacles in beginning work was sourcing the right materials. I got blessed by the Marketplace gods in December, when I snagged a 13 x 17” glass cloche with a rustic wooden base. This item was essential in that the entire scale of the fiber sculpture was dependent upon the size of its vessel. Once acquired, I went down the rabbit hole of what would be the stand-in for the carousel pole and found my eureka moment in the pages of a lamp supplies website. From here, the rest of the process was fairly straightforward and came almost entirely down to the actual labor of it. As a former horse girl, adding an extra set of legs to normal equine anatomy was just a matter of going back to my roots, though my desk did remain cluttered with plastic figurines for a good few months there. Out of all the pieces in my show’s catalogue, I can confidently assert that I had the most fun with Hel and Back.

Up until March, I had arranged my time and focus around singular pieces so as to be able to dive right back into them the moment I got home from work, or had eaten breakfast on my days off. As the penultimate month of my remaining time arrived, the 6-weeks-out panic hit and it was time for a detour. I started in on transferring the detailed digital sketch of my oil paining, Seven For A Secret, to the canvas, and touching up my 2019 piece Schneewittchen for the show. With a tabletop easel, I bounced back and forth between painting and sculpture while I waited for each to dry, with the latter wrapping up at the end of the month. I was running out of time, and I knew it…

By the time April hit, I began to feel a bit insane for attempting my plan to create “a group show done by one artist” — each piece a different medium and style. With only 18 days between me and the show’s opening night, I was still struggling my way through my first oil painting and feeling like I both did and did not-in-any-way know what I was doing. I had not foreseen that the permanent marker I used to outline the sketch would continue to bleed through the oil paint, and I would end up frantically painting one of the magpies five separate times. I had also not yet started on my largest piece of the show: Amor Sui. Well, not the physical piece, at least. My iPad came with me everywhere during this time; if I had free time at work or in the hours before bed, I was knee-deep in the app Procreate, battling my way through anatomy that just kept skirting that feeling where it all falls into place.

April admittedly becomes a bit of a blur to my recollection. I can tell you with certainty that there were days that bled into the early hours of the next; sleep-deprivation; taking whatever time off from work I could; dancing in my studio in the middle of the night, just to keep myself awake enough to push on. I can also tell you that my chronically ill body did not like this much, and that these long days would lead to a summer of burnout, but for those waning weeks I gave everything I had to reach the finish line. One of the few (to me) benefits of having ADHD is the mental override that happens in the eleventh hour. Our freeze state and need for perfection suddenly break away at the push of the FULL SPEED AHEAD button, the one that says: “In case of emergency.”

Now, back to the mad dash of those final weeks. As a multimedia piece, Amor Sui had several separate components that had to be created before they could be combined. The last time I had worked with soft pastels was the first and previously only time, back in college. It had not been a particular favorite back then, and not one I had any confidence in or even plans to return to, however that is the choice I’d made and there was no time left to deviate course. I have to thank past me for this choice, though, as the fact that you can lay so much pigment across a field - in this case with pan pastels, so especially so - meant that I could bust out the background in just a day. Forcing myself to be done with the line art of Eros, I moved on to the next uncharted territory: working on matte Dura-Lar. While drawing on the acetate alternative was “like buttah”, when it came to painting in the color fields on the backside, that… well, that went less well. In becoming inspired to attempt this technique, I missed the distinction that only acrylic gouache should he used — NOT regular gouache. After leaving the paint to dry overnight, I awoke to the horror of finding the film rolled up and a majority of the paint in little chips, now littering my dining room table.

Gentle reader, please note that this is normally where a mental breakdown would have traditionally transpired. However, this was not such an occasion.

The paint chip disaster occurred on April 8th - 10 days left in the countdown. This meant that there was no time for despair as I was already behind, now that the entire process would need to be repeated with acrylic paint. A lint-roller to the rescue, a breath held, and mercifully we were back in business. Once the layers were arranged, it was time to get it into its frame.

Ah. Yes.
Framing…

While it did of course occur to me that my pieces would need to be in their frames so as to hang upon the gallery walls, it wasn’t something that had been occupying much space in my brain after squeezing my creativity for all it was worth, months on end... As the days of the week lost meaning, I stopped considering things like weekends and turnaround times. Nor did I consider the fact that nearly ALL of my frames were antique and would need to be painted and/or patched, among other touchups. In those last days leading up to opening night, my ass was saved several times over by several local businesses who, somehow, made magic happen for me within the tightest of deadlines. I also pulled some rabbits out of the hat those final, frantic days. Not only was I still painting the very last frame within hours of installation, I decided to put things even more down to the wire and spent the morning-of hunting down a table runner to adorn the pedestal for Hel and Back. Despite the frenzy of dashing around town before swinging by the airport to pick up my parents, the decision was absolutely worth the stress; to quote The Dude, “That rug really tied the room together.”

THE AFTER:

What followed after was unequivocally the best night of my life. The release of a cord twisted so taut, giving way to an evening that had my cup overflowing with gratitude. Friends, loved ones, strangers — the gallery stayed filled to the brim for hours on end. I floated along in the buoyancy of watching my art inspire questions and discussions and emotional resonance; there was even a sale or two! How rare and beautiful a thing, to tug on the web of connections you’d weaved for yourself and to find your call so answered, and in ways you could not have expected. The humming in my chest of sharing what I had put so much of myself into - my time, my energy, my mind - stayed like a hive of bees for the entire duration of the show.

When one creates from a place of deep emotion, there is an inherent vulnerability in baring hidden pieces of yourself. You hope that this earnest act of expression will hit its mark and strike a chord, but the risk of rejection is always there. This opening was the undoing of all the regrets stitched into the memory of that first solo opening all those years ago. Unlike the twenty-four year old version of myself, this time I could feel my own presence in every moment. I did not allow compliments paid slough off me like water off a duck’s back, nor offer rebuttals. I was not plagued with anxieties over who I did or did not talk with, nor how I looked. Instead, I let myself stand in the gleam of the limelight and accept the prize of a finish line reached. For me, Forest for the Trees was an arrival unto myself. It was a voice that did not tremble.

— And, scene.