Art for the girl I used to be

For the first time this week, I painted some artwork that I actually hung up for public display (well, that is if my office counts as “public”). I’m looking at the two-piece set right now, loving the colors, embracing the symmetry of it all and noticing how the imperfections contribute to the overall beauty.

These paintings look different hanging on the wall than they did on my painting table. I think they look better but I’m still nervous someone is going to walk in here and horrifically exclaim, “What is that?” as they contort their face into extreme displeasure. But I’m not taking the paintings down; instead, I’m going to leave them there for all the world (i.e. my colleagues) to see.

The anxiety around my debut as a painter seems funny to me. After all, I’ve made an entire career out of putting ideas and words on display for all types of clients and audiences. So, why is art different?

I think it’s because the newness of it makes me feel vulnerable. I’m remembering a certain little girl who used to sneak away to her bedroom and write stories and poems that she never, ever shared with anyone. In fact, I would hide them as if they were my diary, or perhaps better. Once, I got up the courage to share some of my writing and I can still feel the beads of sweat that formed on my forehead that day. But I’m not a little girl anymore, and it’s time to put away her fears as best I can – and not just when it comes to painting.

With my 34th birthday upon me, I’m embracing my (near) mid-30s. I’m learning to be kind to myself — and to be more careful around people who aren’t kind to me. I’m trying to remember to take a step back before I charge forward sometimes. I’m practicing the art of good, direct communication with my loved ones. I’m learning what love looks like for me personally (even if it’s different than how it looks for others.) And like the paintings, I’m noticing how certain flaws actually contribute to the overall design.

No matter how cliché, I really think my paintings are a nice, timely metaphor. This year, I’m going to behold myself as a work in progress – and I can’t wait to see how the beautiful canvas gets filled.