A Library of Intention
Guarding my naïveté so I could come back to myself
I've had my guard up since my early twenties when I lived in NYC. And by guard, I mean my deep sense of insecurity when it comes to my artistic desires and abilities. You see, I wasn't someone who had ever thought I would find myself in NYC enrolled at the New York Studio School of Drawing, Painting, and Sculpture.
The school was founded in 1964 by painter and educator Mercedes Matter and her students who felt frustrated by contemporary art education and wanted to create a space in which they had the ability to choose the artists whom they admired as instructors and create a new approach to art education.
When I enrolled, I lived in the West Village on Jane Street right around the corner from The Beatrice Inn, a NYC club that remains in my minds eye shrouded in a smoke-filled haze and the acrid smell of spilt drinks and sweat still embedded in my skin. The apartment I shared was in a pre-war building. The stairwell was narrow, and the old wooden stairs creaked and wobbled. They spoke a language of their own, one I understood only as a song that welcomed me home each day. It was an apartment I loved for many reasons. It was also a short distance to the Studio School. The school was on 8th street between 6th and 5th Ave. The building was of red brick. The entryway had a huge billowing yellow flag. It had staked its claim in the art world decades before I ever walked through its doors, and it had staked its claim on my heart when I was given a tour through its halls, catching only a glimpse of students' studio spaces and the sculpting classroom.
I enrolled in a drawing class, thinking it was a good way to see if I wanted to commit to their program. It was a semester course, and I would go in the evenings. Week after week, I showed up. Tired, overworked, petrified, but earnest and hopeful. We would set up our paper, lay out our pencils and charcoal, wait patiently for the model to get comfortable in his or her pose. I was shy to begin with, conscious of whether I looked too much or not enough. But within a few sessions, I became more comfortable. I let my hands follow the curves, the through lines. I looked for shapes within the negative spaces my eye caught.
I couldn't tell you what my instructor's name was, but I can tell you that my guard was slowly being built. Brick by brick like the very red brick building we were standing in. "You're drawing too pretty," he would say. Week after week, it was too beautiful, too poetic. It wasn't messy enough. It wasn't really what was before me. I don't blame him. I don't know if he was right or not, but he did make me question my ability to truly see the world around me. Fair enough if he didn't like my style. Did I even have a style? But if I couldn't see what was in front of me, if I wasn't able to observe the world around me, then how was I ever going to be an artist?
I finished the course. I didn't even attempt to show up for the final class. I wasn't an artist by their standards, and my guard was up for good. That is until now.
Many, many things have had to happen to bring me to this place of hope in my practice—a true sense of trust. Not because I desire or need some socially acceptable level of success, but because I recognize that painting is what brings me peace. Now, more than ever, peace is all I hope for: a calm nervous system, walks along the beach at sunrise, reading books for pleasure, listening to music with my daughter, slow dancing with my lover, eating nourishing food, and having a connection to the growers and makers of all that nourishes my family and me. Sitting around a table with friends, whether over coffee or by candlelight, and moments of solitude to think. Painting, above all, gives me a sense that all of this is not only possible but, more importantly, that they are all absolutely essential. had to let go of a lot of dreams to face my fears and start living a life that honoured my self and all that I love. I had to shed many versions of myself to get down to the bones of what is truly important to me.
So, here I am, in a space where many seek genuine connection, quality writing, meaningful intentions, and inspiration - much like the experience I had hoped for in Art School. I consider this space my return to Art School, where I'll share my Practice with you. I'll share my approach to life with a discerning eye and an open heart, marking onto "paper" how I see the world. I will share my reflections on my past experiences in hopes that it will help me see clearly how to live a life true purpose. My desire is to capture life’s beauty, acknowledge the "ugly" and allow my enthusiasm and curiosity to lead the way, crafting this Library of Intention.
This space shall be my studio, where all my curiosities find their way into your lives - from books, films, and works of art, to the artists, scientists, deep thinkers, and everything else that weaves its way into my heart and influences my art. I'm reaching out to you, asking for your trust that I too can enrich your life. Trust is something that takes time to build, but I'm eager to share with you my life as a working artist - discussing all that inspires me and the processes I use to guard my heart and remain tender and hopeful.
“You study, you learn, but you guard the original naïveté. It has to be within you, as desire for drink is within the drunkard or love is within the lover.”
― Henri Matisse
I loved reading this special piece, a little glimpse and generous insight to the thrumming beneath, all that has been and all that is to come. Thank you x
I love the way your words paint pictures. I felt like I could hear those stairs talking and see the red colour of those bricks. I love your art. Both paintings and written words. You are an artist and a magnificent one at that!