When I was about seven or eight years old, I looked at the art my classmates were making and vividly recall not measuring up.
I paled in comparison to my friends,聽who upon reflection were all at least a year older than me because I was kicked out of kindergarten and put into Grade 1 prematurely due to my precocious behaviour. I made a decision then and there (based on a Shrine Circus colouring contest submission, no less) that I was never going to be an artist. From then on I pretty much refused to take part in drawing or painting if I could help it.
Trouble was, I really loved it.
Fast forward a few years 鈥� OK, more than 30 years 鈥� when I found myself perusing art galleries, no longer just appreciating what I see but wistfully wondering if I could in fact make stuff like that too.
So several years ago I picked up some inexpensive canvases and started working on some pieces that, while quite simple and basic, made me happy. Some friends even purchased pieces from me.
That in and of itself is a huge deal, isn鈥檛 it? Did I let that sort of encouragement spur me on? Did I turn around and make more art?
No way! That old voice inside my head jumped in loud and clear: I really wasn鈥檛 any good, what right did I have? So several more years passed鈥� no art. Then a few months ago I was given the opportunity to take an art class practically for free in my living room. Even then I hesitated.
Do you know what I told myself? That I wasn鈥檛 good enough. To take a class 鈥撀� a class for people who don鈥檛 know how to paint. At all.
That鈥檚 when I had a reality check. That鈥檚 when I realized how absolutely unreasonable that voice inside my head was being. Really? Not good enough to take an art class? How good a driver does one have to be to take driving lessons? Or a cooking class? What about guitar lessons? Does any teacher expect his or her student to show up with a high level of talent for a beginner tutorial?
And when I think about what Malcolm Gladwell wrote in The Outliers, his theory of 10,000 practice hours as key for success in any field鈥� well, how many thousands of hours could I have clocked in the last 36 years? What had I missed out on? Never in a million years would I talk to my children or actively discourage them from anything the way I spoke to myself.
So I took the art class. And then I took another. And I am buying myself canvases and paint and working on it every week.
I鈥檓 putting aside time to paint, even when I can think of other things that need to be done. And I get completely lost in it, which is how I know I鈥檓 doing what I鈥檓 meant to be doing.
Other people like what I create 鈥� and the best part is that while the feedback is nice, it doesn鈥檛 really matter. I鈥檝e sold two more paintings, which feels good鈥� but mostly it lets me buy more paint. Because I鈥檝e quieted that voice inside my head and I鈥檓 listening to the voice inside my heart instead.
I may not be the best painter, but I finally realized that at age 44, it doesn鈥檛 really matter.
