Standing with eight other students in a warm-lit sun-bleached room, I stared at my progress of a still life composed of wine bottles and cloth draped over a table. I’m crying. I had imagined painting a beautiful, epic piece, full of color with the right proportions- a piece an artist would be proud of. At that moment, I felt nothing like an artist. My piece was dull and brown. The paper was too wet and pilling at areas I tried correcting.
Thomas Newbolt strode over, “Let’s take a walk.” Thomas was my art teacher. He looked like a real artist. He was tall and slender and walked like a poised giraffe. Every day, he wore the same uniform. Slacks, a button-up shirt, a vest, (and regardless of how
hot the day was) a red woolen scarf.
Outside in the full summer sun. We walked around the grassy fields of Cambridge University. We were heading towards a shady spot by the river where care-free students were drifting with their boats. Full pea sized tears were accompanying the snot sliding down my face.
Thomas hands me his handkerchief, “Why are you crying?” I tell him my desire to be an artist. I tell him how I dream of creating beautiful art. I tell him about my
dissatisfaction and catastrophic failure. He takes a long pause and tells me a story of an architect. The architect dreams of creating spacious, white buildings, full of light. He wanted the building to bring joy to all who entered. However, try as he might, every mockup did not live up to his dream. He could not bring his vision to life. Pressed by a deadline, he was forced to settle for what he had. Although his design was not the same as his dream, his building did bring joy to all those who entered.
When I returned to my easel, I had a new appreciation for my piece. It represented the potential of being a beautiful work of art. I’ve learned that being an artist isn’t about the way you look or present yourself. It isn’t about how beautiful your pieces turn out to be. It’s about seeing who you are at the moment, loving your flaws, and working towards a dream.
Pattie Kurtz’s brother, Don, was a long-time client of CSA. Don had several psychiatric diagnoses in adulthood, and eventually qualified for
Standing with eight other students in a warm-lit sun-bleached room, I stared at my progress of a still life composed of wine bottles and cloth draped