A Transition

When she paints, she sometimes reaches a place of bliss. A place where time flies.

She did not learn what making art is. She just learned to make the time to paint. You take a pretty picture and you paint. So she’s just been painting pretty pictures really.

And it’s from that flimsy base that she starts flirting with the idea that maybe she could do that as her work.
She quit her job few months ago, once again on a quest to find one that “makes sense”. Not her first attempt.
Life is too short. Something is just not right. She wants to live a life aligned with who she is — where her emotions are a gift, not a burden. Where she can create a world around her that reflects the one she has inside.

She wants to slow down. The world is going too fast. Even time off is a source of stress — so eager to make it “worth it”.

What are we rushing toward?

She feels living in a constant state of stress. Just moving air around. There are no pauses. No time to reflect. It’s like sliding across the surface of life.

She needs this to change. She needs to find depth. She doesn’t know how but she will explore. 

She knows nothing about the art world — how to make a living out of it. Still, she trusts.

But now she is here. She has followed her inner voice. Now what?

She is financially stressed. She stepped outside of a conventional job. No one tells her what she is supposed to be doing. She wakes every morning wondering.
Maybe she is just idealistic. Maybe, like in her previous jobs, she does not have what it takes. Maybe she’s too weak.

It’s midday. She’s done nothing she feels tangible or revenue-generating.
No spreadsheets, no PowerPoint decks, no backlog grooming, no meeting to prepare more meetings. Nothing that used to justify her salary..

She wonders if the conventional path wasn’t so bad after all.

It’s another morning. 6.30am. Coffee in hand. Should she focus on yoga or art. She weights both in her mind. Still doesn’t know. She washes dishes. Thinks of her somatic therapy course. But then the light will be wrong to paint.

An hour passes.

She decides to paint something that will sell. Most likely it won’t. After a few hours, she thinks it’s crap. She shift to her other work. Later, she has a class at the studio. She likes days with classes — she feels she is doing something tangible. Something useful. Something she is paid for.

Weeks pass in more or less the same rhythm.

Then someone buys an old painting. He saw it and loved it. Hope floods back. Colors feel brighter. The future full of opportunities. She is convinced she made the right choice.

It does not last long. But it’s intense.

And then doubt returns.

What’s her art style? what does she want to say? What does it mean to be an artist?
She does not know. But she needs an income.
She jumps from portraits to landscape to still life. Some people like her work, even want to buy it. Hope again. She keeps on painting. Randomly.

Then, silence. No more sales. She looks at her portfolio —. her color palette is all over the place, her subjects are all over the place, her style is all over the place.

Where is she going?

Who is she fooling?

Why did she want to become an artist?

Was it just those few weekends where she got lost in her painting?

She needs more than that. But she can’t seem to find it.

She paints what she thinks will sell. They probably won’t.

She spends more and more time in her head. What should she be doing?

She posts on instagram. She doesn’t want to — it doesn’t feel authentic. She does it anyway. It doesn’t land. She takes it as a proof she’s not good enough. She spirals. She can see it.

She meditates. Walks. She shows up, like they say. But she’s still in her head.

So she meditates more. It’s better than medicate.

She focuses for a while on her other activity. It’s not doing much better — no one knows about it. But it’s safer than saying it and failing publicly.

She writes. Because obviously, she can’t stick to one thing.

Writing helps. Sometimes. Sometimes it makes things worse. Cause not only she sucks at painting but she sucks at writing too.

She knows she has to trust the process.

All those meditations start to pay off. She’s in touch with herself.
Too much, maybe. She feels raw, exposed. As if walking out in the street, naked. There is shame. She’s showing things she’s not supposed to. She doesn’t know how to hide anymore. So she stays in the house.
Curtains drawn, she hides from the world. But she can’t hide from herself.

Her emotions come at her like waves.
Some pull her down. Some lift her up.
Sometimes she is on top of the world. Sometimes she’s drowning.

Her life is now rhythm-ed by those constant waves of emotions. She knows how they act by now. Sometimes she can let them be. She knows they will pass. Sometimes they stay so long, it’s difficult to just observe them. She gets sucked in.

They say she should paint as a therapy. She tries. Her paintings are intense. Over saturated colors. Aggressive brushstrokes. They hurt her. They’re loud and messy — telling her: you see, you suck.

She stops.

She goes for a walk. Drinks wine. Wakes up heavy. Walks some more. Feels calmer.

Her brain is asking her what she should paint. She still doesn’t know.

She writes. Pages and pages. They will add to the pile she has written over the years. In English. In French. In bad English. In bad French..

She starts feeling desperate.

She does some active yoga.

She meditates.

She feels better.

She thinks maybe it’s perimenopause. Her hormones having fun with her. Maybe it’s normal. Maybe she’s normal.

She re-pots her plant.

She is in awe of nature.

She paints a landscape from her last trip.

She has one day of no questions.

She paints.

One client in her somatic practice is making progress. Her client is happy. Suddenly all the struggles feel worth it. She’s contributing to this world, in her own way.

She feels she’s on the right path.

She still doesn’t know what she wants to share with her paintings. Or whether she’s to be a painter, a writer, a therapist or something else entirely.

And it’s ok.

Maybe her role is to be all of it. Maybe her job is to live it, and share it.

She hears her inner voice again.

So she keeps going.

She’s on her journey.

An artistic journey.