My grandfather was an oil painter. He painted “real” things like paintbrushes and old barns around the first state. He didn’t enjoy when his grandchildren got into the paints and coloured all over the walls and those fresh white canvases. He wasn’t much of an “abstract” guy. We must learn the proper way to paint; “realistic, relatable, normal”. I used to wish my art was prettier and a little less punk rock. I was around ten when I had my first violation for artistic vandalism. It was at some DuPont’s beach house, the man my grandmother worked for — and I carved my name into the wall. I also carved my siblings; however, we all did not go down for the crime. I was the only one who could write. That wild, rambunctious ball of fire thought he’d like it; or wouldn’t notice. He did notice. I am not so sure he liked it. My intentions were pure, I even drew hearts around all our names.
You see, it’s through my art now that I can allow that same energy and give that child a proper place in the world. Art used to mean “no rules” a long time ago to me.
My grandfather really loved oil paints — I also remember that. We bonded as he let me change one of the roof colours red in one of his hometown coastal painting. For as long as I can remember I wanted to be an artist like him. Just not with as many restrictions. The message from my family was consistent — be an artist when you retire. No art school; it doesn’t make money. As much as I wished to be as technically capable as my grandfather; I didn’t agree with any of that logic. Why wait? Why money? I didn’t care much for the “reality of shapes”. I just liked colours and feeling. It was just fun.
There was a huge hole in my heart when I believed that my dream of “NYU Art School” was ripped away from my hands in my teenage years. I was told it would be state college, or trade school. I didn’t get into the University of Delaware. Perhaps, it was because when they asked me to write a letter about why I got C’s in high school; I wrote an essay in response called “C is for Cookie and it’s good enough for me”. I am not sure they liked it either. But I laughed.
I once believed being an artist meant living on ones creations financially. And to live a good life means to have a good job that makes good money. I guess I was too young to realise choosing a vocation should not be about monetary gain. So I kept my eye on graduate school; my life will be better once I get there. And once I got there; the illusion crumbled. My life was not going to get “better” until I begin living the truth that sang in my heart. You see, after I gave birth something changed inside me and I can’t fully explain it. It’s like all these walls came tumbling down. I had to organise the pieces of who I was; again. In “my real life” I needed more rules, structure, organisation. And in my emotional life I needed a deeper sense of freedom.
I began to accept that with or without “art school”; I could be an artist. I began to accept that I was here in chiropractic college for a reason. I began to accept myself, and these jarring contractions inside of me. Life isn’t black and white. I realised my art was the only genuine thing I could ever give someone else on the internet. I realised that my art helped me to express and understand myself. And maybe it could help one other person along the way.
I began listening to music. My eyes opened, and I became aware of all the things I did not want to see or confront. I did that through art. It became my safe spot. It became the home I once longed for in the silence of the night. It became so much bigger than how much I could sell something for. I began creating for me.
If I was going to be a doctor one day — I wanted to be the one that I would like. Not the one my father would; not the one my grandfather would.
So I tore down the walls around my emotional life. And painting (and writing) was like opening a stress valve. At first it ruptured through like bottled-up rage. Chiropractic helped my body through out the entire process. I held on as the emotional floodgates of decades past came pouring through my fingertips. And art? Well that was the channel that I carved out to allow all the feels to flow through. It’s not about being good enough to show off what I’ve created. I know I am not the best, yet. I am just getting better.
It’s about progress.
Not perfection.
It’s about Expression.
Not digestion.
I call my art shitty because it’s not about looking pretty. It’s about healing and feeling. And yes, anyone can do it.