Shifting Focus: A Writer Becomes a Painter

 Technically speaking, I am a writer, not an artist.

For more than a decade, starting straight out of college, I was a freelance journalist, pitching stories to editors at magazines and newspapers. My articles and essays often combined first-hand experience with more traditional reporting. As a result, I know what it’s like to put a little bit (or a lot) of myself into a story and then send it out to the world, vulnerable to praise and criticism. That process, combined with the constant risk of being rejected by editors, is a soul-baring experience. I have found that it either leads to a thickening of the skin or a career change. In my case, my epidermis became pretty resistant to the risks (and reality) of rejection – in the professional realm, at least.

Since embarking on my visual arts adventure with CheekyKiwi Creations, I’ve been surprised to find out how much my previous writing career and my current artistic career have in common. My solitary time painting in the studio reminds me of my hours writing alone at the computer (albeit with a lot less eye strain – and a lot more Dolly Parton). Writing and painting both give me an intense, hard-to-describe right-brained escape that makes time feel both frozen and fluid and leaves me feeling deeply relaxed yet entirely focused. The intense joy that I experience when I’m playing with saturated colors is at least as satisfying as finding the perfect phrase or metaphor in my writing.

Creative experience aside, however, I’ve been surprised by how quickly I began using the most basic business skills I developed as a freelance writer: Marketing myself and my work, taking professional risks, and feeling undaunted by inevitable rejections. Instead of submitting ideas for articles and essays, today I find myself “pitching” my work to a different kind of “editor” – store owners, gallery curators, and exhibit jurors. Like the magazine and newspaper editors before them, these esteemed critics decide if my art is right for their company or brand. Does it support the organization’s theme, mission, or point of view? Will the target audience like it? Will someone buy it? And frankly, is it good enough?

I’m certainly not saying that I love this process. There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend time in my studio, brushes loaded up with paint. Waiting to hear about a submission to a show is nerve-wracking. Presenting my cards to a retail buyer is intimidating. And rejection is never fun. (Of course, an acceptance can leave me grinning for days.) But I’ve discovered that what some artists consider an optional or even unnecessary part of making art, I consider integral.

In the past year, I have audaciously submitted my work to far more galleries and shows than any new artist really has the right to. Protected by my professional-grade thick skin – and healthy dose of chutzpah – I’m able to enjoy the successes without sweating the failures. The way I see it, I’ve got plenty to gain, and nothing to lose. Buoyed by positive feedback and undaunted by the negative, I wake up each morning simply buzzing with the sense of artistic and business possibility. Just as it was when I was a writer, all professional doors seem unlocked. Some are ajar. Still others just need a gentle push to open them up wide before I decide to step on through.