Looking Glass Eyes

I noticed something last night, something that surprised yet pleased me. I had gone out to attend the ArtWalk here in Bozeman, Montana with the specific intention of meeting the sculptor who had created the angel wings pendent and earrings that I wear nearly ‘round the clock. I'd purchased the pendent last October, after my son moved out of my home, when I found myself living alone for the first time in my life and wondering how to begin living for myself once again. This very beautiful wearable art is titled Naissance, rebirth. Very fitting for the next phase of my life.

I soon began an email conversation with the artist asking him to create the matching pair of earrings I now wear and thus felt as though we had a connection that I wanted to honor. So off I went last night, in the rain, to meet him - a very nice gentleman, unassuming and friendly. We chatted for a few moments as he showed me the other work he’d sculpted using the earring design he'd created for me and then thanked me for the impetus to create the pieces. He then went on to show me other new artwork and that’s when I noticed it … the self-judgment. He called his work “weird” with a wincing that showed on his face. I was bemused by this display of self ridicule.

Being an artist myself, and having more than my share of self-judgment, I’d always put other artists up on a pedestal, or at least on a step-stool. Above me. “Real” artists, those who make a career of their calling and who support themselves with their art, who have gallery representation, and who, unlike me, have talent and visible success. This had been the internal self-dialogue I'd heard for many years. Not the truth, mind you, just my own self-judgment and recrimination. So this sculptor stood, in my mind, upon a pedestal of endorsement and accomplishment. I, on the other hand, have only had one solo show, three invitational shows, three juried shows, one second place award, and was a guest lecturer, but only once. Obviously not enough to justify calling myself a “real” artist. Like I said, self-denial and censure, lies I told myself.

It was through the More to Life program that I’d learned the truth about who I am, the truth about my abilities, talents and character. And it was the more than two years of truth-telling that led me to the next point in my conversation with this “real” artist. I whipped my business card out of my back pocket and handed it to him stating that I am a photographer. I didn’t say “I want to be” or “am trying to become” or “dabble in” as I frequently have said in the not so distant past. There was no framing of it, no qualifying or explaining, no down-playing and minimizing. “I am a photographer,” I said and smiled. It was owned right down to my toes and it showed in my demeanor.

It was only after walking out of the gallery that I noticed the absence of shrinking in myself. I stumbled across it while reflecting on the flinching I’d witnessed as he spoke of his “weird” art. I had seen my former self on his face, a self I am happy to leave behind. And isn’t it ironic that it was this wincing man’s artwork, this Naissance that I wear daily around my neck, that bore my intention along this very self-affirming journey from purpose, through vision and into reality?

Perhaps he saw himself, too, his true self, in my looking glass eyes. I can only hope.