VanLife

I delivered a drawing this weekend at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Wausau before the opening of their upcoming summer exhibition 'Iconic.' As usual, I was awestruck by the grandeur of the museum and of the quality of art they have on exhibit from all over the world. I am humbled and honored to have work currently on display and curated into the upcoming mix.

I left the parking lot disappointed I would miss the opening. While I used to dread those moments standing in front of my work and shaking hands, I must admit somewhere along the way, I have come to enjoy meeting new people and watching viewers interact with my work. The process is still difficult for me because it requires me to find unstained, nice clothes and track down a tube of lipstick. I still feel out-of-place and fearful I will say something stupid which will negate all the hours I spent creating the work. I like to find a quiet place at the back of the room where very few people realize I'm an artist.

Openings are like that moment when the curtain rises at the theatre. They tell a flawless and well-curated story of finished work. (Often to viewers who might not even give artists the time of day if they were to pass us covered in charcoal on the street.) Even though I have come to enjoy the emotional high of those moments and the work they celebrate, they still somehow feel a bit dishonest. Not false in a way that tells a lie, but false because they communicate only a partial truth.

In this case, it doesn't matter because I wish I could be there. Still, if I am committed to pursuing honesty in my work, then I figure it's time I tell the whole story—the story of what goes on behind that curtain, before it raises, and work appears flawlessly framed and lit up on a wall. Because, if anyone truly wanted to meet the artist who drew those works, she is not the one who stands in front of them smiling with a manicure and heels. That, my friends, is smoke and mirrors.

I should paint a picture closer to the truth. The reality is I'm not sure I own a pair of pants that are not covered in charcoal and ink stains, my hands are dried out from years of compulsively washing them clean, and my nails are almost permanently black in areas from the ink I use. I own two pairs of worn-out sandals, which I wear to and from the studio and are usually covered in mud from the walk. I leave them at the studio door and spend most of the day working in bare feet, which end up black from all the charcoal dust. I rarely ever do anything to my hair, and as soon as I make it to the studio, I pull it out of my face or use a pencil to put it up in a bun.

That smile is most often a stage prop too, and at present, I am exhausted after teaching three consecutive weeks of art workshops. I left my studio in a mess which I rarely do, and I can't stop worrying about it. My husband and I left in a hurry to make this trip and rented a cargo van to transport artwork—which looks ridiculous. Once again, I feel like an idiot, and the feeling is confirmed by the judgmental glances we receive from others on the road. We nicknamed the high-topped moving van the 'Rocketship' because one of the drawings strapped in the back was just included in the lunar codex. We drive the Rocket 30 hours in under 45, all over the country, to make the schedule work.

Like many artists, I am pulled apart in many directions. The low valleys of those emotional undulations are several shades darker than the peaks. One day bleeds into the next, and I'm often too tired to think straight. I fight to give my work the best of me but frequently lose. And I am constantly battling that unseen force that stands against new creation. I try to be there for my students as they navigate the same emotional turbulence.

This cycle of work with little reward is draining, and as I strain to continue to put one foot in front of the other, I begin to question everything I do and every line I draw. This lonely walk gives root to depression, and I retreat even further. I start to mistrust even the people I love the most until I finally admit I cannot trust myself.

I am cursed with the type of mind which methodically dissects my environment in an effort to understand. While this investigation makes for strong artwork, I cannot shut off the maddening cycle of examining, deconstructing, and reconstructing anything around me. I explain away explaining. Just as I think I begin to understand, like a mirage I drive towards, wisdom fades away. I am left standing in nothing, and all becomes a meaningless waste, like chasing of the wind.

I hide this part of myself from most people, so I feel less like an outlier. And I find there is little that helps me navigate the void and snap back into the present. The voices of other artists are uplifting, and I grab onto them to keep walking forward.

As absurd as it sounds, it also helps to clean my studio and teaching space. It is a daily battle to remove the fine covering of black dust which blankets the studio. I grumble about it some, but there is a quiet, meditative process involved in reclaiming my space. It functions like a bridge bringing me back to reality and helps me feel in control.

Despite those long trudges through dark valleys, the life of an artist also includes high points, like openings and other moments that keep me sitting at my easel. More important than public affirmation is that powerful connection I feel when my hand makes that mark across the paper, over and over again, leaving a history of kinetic energy. In these moments, I am almost in a trance. I lose all sense of time, and the hours pass like minutes. As I watch form develop on the page, new creation emerging out of emptiness, I cannot imagine passing my days doing anything else. Again like other artists, I have this sense the work is bigger than me, and I am honored to carry forward the traditions of the past and leave to the future a portion of myself.

Creativity spills into other areas, and I often find myself hyperaware and easily distracted by my surroundings. When my head hits the pillow at night, my mind refuses to shut off and begins to write—softly at first, and then louder and louder, until I sneak out of bed to outline my thoughts. And round and round, the creation cycle continues.

Though it is a constant struggle to navigate an artist lifestyle, I am grateful for all my work has given back to me. I think of all the places the work has required me to visit and the people I have met and grown to love along the way. I'm thankful as well for those moments which might otherwise slip through my fingers. I know grabbing onto beauty might make me appear foolish to others. I figure this 'grabbing on' accounts for many of the silly moments in my life – and explains why I often end up in some strange crowded city street on my knees taking pictures of birds, or in other senseless scenarios.

... Like the one I find myself in driving back from Wausau.

It is getting dark outside, so we find a campground not far off the road and pull the Rocketship off for the night. We threw in a mattress to cushion the art, so I figure we have everything we need. There is a camp sink, and I find myself grateful for running water and a toothbrush. On the walk to it, we see what looks like a million fireflies hovering at varying levels against the silhouette of the hillside. It's enchanting, like a symphony of fallen stars flickering in the night.

I feel safe and content in the back of our van, lying on my old mattress, with my head resting on a bundled-up, dirty moving blanket. I start to feel a twinge of guilt because a warm, dry place to sleep, access to running water, a mattress, a blanket, and a toothbrush are luxuries so many are denied. Suddenly, the van is not quite so ludicrous. What is absurd, is I have bought into the idea that I ever needed more than this to carry me through life. Deep down, I know I am self-contained, and I could be satisfied to walk away with the shirt on my back and a satchel bag of books, journals, and charcoal.

As I lie there next to my drawing, I'm grateful again for the perspective my work has given me. I know I don't make as much money as my peers and that, for the rest of my life, I will have to deal with many of the people I meet thinking I am crazy. But I don't care anymore. Because at the end of days, when I account for my life, I hope I won't have to confess to wasting my breath. As I stare up at the roof of the van, I know I am supposed to worry about buying a new outfit and finding that tube of lipstick to make it back to the opening, or at the very least figuring out how to stage some shots for social media. But, as I drift off to sleep, all I can think about is that field of fireflies, and I give thanks for the artist's version of a quarterly bonus.

Following the artist call is exhausting, let's be clear, but tonight curled up in the van next to my work… it is well with my soul.