Fear of restarting

Beyond the Path . 6 × 8” Oil

After attending The Museum of Fine Arts School in Boston for only a year, I needed to take a sudden break. At the age of 20,  I was expecting a baby. I was overjoyed with the new life on the way, being a Mom was always my biggest dream, but I just wasn’t planning on it arriving so soon. Then, three years later, my second son joined us. What a joy he was, I adored them both.

I was so thankful for my sons. With the responsibilities of being a parent, and with a complicated life on top of it all, it seemed best to put away the dream of becoming an artist, going to art school, painting. Perhaps it was time to only look at that life in my rear view mirror.

I must say that the memories of art classes, and joining the part of myself that felt so natural, was hard to put away. Was I truly done? These memories and dreams just sat on my shoulders. They haunted me, wouldn’t leave me alone, no matter how hard I tried to put it all behind me.

I had not reached a level of development that proved that this was what I even needed to do. And definitely anyone seeing my early starts would agree. I just needed to look forward, not back.

When my youngest son turned two, I was at a gathering with colleagues of my husbands at the time. I met the wife of one of them, and I connected with her on a level I hadn’t felt for a long time. The professionals in the room were experts in economics and business and were busy talking shop with each other while their spouses were left to entertain themselves.

She loved art, she loved to draw. She had worked in a gallery in the Northeast prior to becoming a mom, and she really missed it. She mentioned, “I have heard that there is a really talented young artist who is teaching figure drawing at Cheekwood”, a depression era mansion that had been converted into an art museum, probably possessing the largest collection at the time in Nashville.

The artist she spoke of had studied at The Arts Students League in New York for seven years. I was well aware of The Art League and was thrilled to know that an artist at that level was here. 

“I’d love to sign up, but I don’t really want to go alone. I never got very far as an artist, maybe I’m not good enough to be in his class?” She said. 

“I know how you feel, I never really got very far myself. Now that I’ve been away from it for so long, I don’t think I’m good enough either.”

I had searched on occasion, for art instruction available in the Nashville area, but at that time I really hadn’t found anything that fit. I was a mom now, juggling multiple responsibilities and I had been trying to resign my self to a different future.

“Let’s do it, let’s sign up,  when will there be another opportunity to do this? Please say yes, I’ll go if you’ll go?” She said.

I thought if I didn’t have to go alone, it would be easier. It took everything I had to agree. “OK, if you come with me, I’ll sign up too.”

The plan was made, I got my supplies, but as the date approached, I began to feel sick to my stomach, not an illness, but true fear. What if I wasn’t able to draw anymore? What if I’m really not that good anyway? Perhaps just keeping the memories of when I was in art school and the possibility of the dream happening, maybe that was better than finding out I couldn’t cut it anyway.”

I called my friend on the day of the night class, confirmed the time, and we decided to meet in the parking lot and walk in together. I thought I could do that. But the fear sickness stayed with me and while driving to class, it got worse. If it wasn’t for my friend waiting on me, I think I would have turned around.

Then, as I sat in my parked car, she didn’t show up. I kept waiting, and since cell phones were not a thing yet, no way to check with her. I kept sitting, waiting; was she just really late? 

Finally, it was time to call it; the class would begin in a few minutes, so I took a deep breath and went in. I was actually trembling a bit, thinking I  was making a mistake. The model was in the front of the room getting prepared, a good amount of students were getting ready to begin, and the nicest young man came to me. 

It was the teacher. “Are you here for class? Just choose a spot,” as he checked his list of who had signed up. He and his wife, also an artist, welcomed me, and I suddenly felt like I was with friends, actually, a room full. The artist, Joe Sulkowski, was warm, friendly, and proved to be a kind and encouraging instructor. What an incredible night I had; I was where I belonged, and my break from art was finally broken. I was back.

The fear is real; I’ve felt it throughout my life and seen it in the eyes of every student who ever walked through my door. 

If you’ve felt this too, take a breath and start. It doesn’t matter if you are restarting or if you’ve never given yourself permission to even start. Just start; we’ve all been there, and you will never regret moving forward.

The strangest thing, though, was that I never saw or heard from my friend who was going to meet me that night. There were probably many reasons why she didn’t show up, but I’m forever grateful for her help; she opened the path forward for me. 

Expectation

Pastel . 9 x 12