The artist at work.

Correct me if I’m wrong, here…

To most, the artist has a reputation of being an enviable, mysterious creature, embodying exotic creativity, bliss, freedom. His hours are truly his own and are seasoned heavily with romance. His relationships are thrilling and deep. He dances through his days in a fluid-like rhythm of grace, beauty, and harmony. He listens to the coolest music that you’ve never heard of. His socks are from freakin’ Indonesia. His art is beyond you, but it sells for more than you make in a year. He sips elegant French wines at 1 and dines with hot friends who worship him, late into the night. He sleeps in and works only when he feels like it. He eats cured meats and caviar. He births masterpieces on a Wednesday. And hires people to do the rest.

Am I close? That’s what I thought of when picturing the artist’s life.

Hi. I’m Erin. Based on the fact that it took me seventeen minutes to remember the word for “those gross-looking fish eggs” tells you something about me as an artist. (I actually couldn’t remember the damn word at all and had to ask my hubby.)

As a spring chicken in the art world, I walked in the door naively hoping that I would buy a canvas, a brush, some colors, and if I wished real hard, a god-like force would fill my body and create something mind-blowing for the world to drool over. Ummmm, yea. Not close.

With heaps of self-doubt, I began anyway, hoping (more realistically) that my insatiable desire to create would produce something that someone would notice. Even if only I appreciated it.

So yes, I began. But no such luck on the god-like force. This was going to take some work.

I began my quest for creative freedom and was fortunate enough to have guidance from artist and mentor, Alixandra Martin. Look her up! She walked me through the REAL things an artist does: Stretching canvases, training your eye, practicing, working, trying hard, failing, doing it again, finishing it. We used more than just brushes, that’s for sure.

My studio coffee table, this afternoon. Of course, being me, I had to put colors together and make it look nice for the picture.

There is artwork. And there is art WORK.

The life of the artist is not as glamorous as most would think. Sure, when some have “made it” in the art world they enjoy French wine at 1 and cured meats n stuff. But most, I would say, have days a bit more like mine:

Get up at 7. Pound a bunch of coffee. Get the kids on the bus. Get dressed, brush my teeth, put on my favorite scarf for comfort. Wear ripped jeans or sweatpants (sometimes even my one-piece Dickies’ coveralls). Assess my current projects and commissions and figure out my focus(es) for the day. More coffee. I forget to eat. Head to the studio.

I begin working. I generally have to build something, mount something, clean something, or frame something before I get to paint. It’s likely that I will slam my finger with a hammer and probably get Windex in my eye. Then I will cut the same damn finger with some random metal wire and get a stiff neck from sitting on the floor for too long.

Then, I paint. I will, of course, doubt myself. I’ll paint again. Then, starving, I’ll pound something exotic like stale Ritz crackers and a half of a leftover egg salad sandwich. I’ll paint some more. Hydrate. I’ll mount a new painting I did last week into a vintage frame and hurt another finger on an old rusty nail sticking out of it.

You’re catching my drift.

It’s not totally romantic. It’s work. It’s hard work. Any creative would probably tell you the same thing.

But don’t get me wrong—like with any “job” that you “work” at and is close to your heart, there are moments of pure joy and gratitude. I have glimmering, golden moments and I realize that I am working at something that makes me feel free.

I may not be wearing socks from Indonesia and listening to obscure Jazz by someone we’ve never heard of, but I have on super warm socks from Target. And “When Doves Cry” is blasting. And I’m happy. Because the work is the best part. The work is better than the art, itself.

Thanks for reading,
e

P.S. If I ever get to a point where a painting I make sells for a lot of money and I’m NOT listening to Prince and I am definitely drinking wine all day and I’m hiring someone to slam their fingers with hammers for me, please shoot me in the leg. I will have forgotten who I am.