Paint as prayer

The ebb and flow of belief, part five

I am a writer who makes art.

A small child, I filled up pages with stories before I actually knew how to make letters. My favorite first grade activity was stapling together sheets of paper to make books, which I wrote and illustrated. I was a writer. I loved to paint. These were things I knew about myself from the very beginning.

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In college, I gave the English department a try, but it wasn’t the place for me and there was no writing major. I ended up in the art department because that’s where it seemed to me real and vital discussion was happening. I majored in studio art.

After graduation, I worked in a fast food restaurant for a little while, then moved to New York. I continued to make art. I even had work in a couple of group shows. But eventually, I stopped. I remember sitting in a bar with my then boyfriend, who was an artist, talking about my desire to paint. I told him how inspired I felt, living in a city surrounded by artists, going to galleries and openings. I thought I maybe I could have some sort of painter’s life. (I was drunk. I probably said something like, “I could be good!”)

“Let’s not get carried away,” he said. Meaning, I was not a painter. Not really.

This is the fifth installment of my story of spiritual exploration, finding belief and the releasing of belief. It’s a long story, so I’m sharing it as a series. It’s also a story that feels intimate and tender to me, so I’m gently placing it behind a paywall. I don’t know yet how this story ends, I’m hoping that in reading and writing it, we’ll discover something. To continue reading, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.