Twenty Dollars, Twenty-One Years

I remember the summer I attended a pre-college program at California College of the Arts for drawing and printmaking. I was seventeen. After a few affecting weeks across the country, I spent the rest of the summer camping near the beach in Maine with my family. Days were spent sunning on towels, reading, or sketching; nights were spent around the campfire or at the fair on the pier.

I was lying stomach-down on my towel, nose in my sketchbook, when a couple approached and asked me to draw their baby.

I should mention that art as a career had never occurred to me, despite the fact that my paternal grandfather was a painter. (Most of my family worked in the hard sciences.

I was happy to oblige, sketching a few studies before a longer portrait of a chubby infant in a bucket hat. When they offered to pay me $20, it struck me as surreal that someone would pay money for a sketch of mine. Cheeks burning, I declined.

I wish I had a picture of that sketch, or of that sweet family. I wonder if they still have it — if it means anything to them 21 years later. (Holy moly, that cherubic baby can buy beer now.)

Fast-forward to last weekend at the Guilford Craft Expo, where a family stopped by my booth three times before settling on "Lakeside," a 16" x 20" piece on stretched canvas in a solid oak float frame — one of my newest works. It feels like peeking through the trees to discover a secret, special place. I'm proud of it.

"We like to buy real art," they told me.

After wrapping the piece and passing it to the husband — he cradled the canvas while his wife cradled their youngest — I asked if I could take a picture of them with it. They cheerfully agreed.

It's a strange, wonderful feeling, watching something I once barely let myself dream about come to life. I'm so grateful — for the dream, for the space to make, and for your support along the way. It means more than you know, and I'll carry it with me always.