Concentricity & Exploring Self
“The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.”
– Aristotle
From the time I was a young child, I found that art helped me express the things that I felt I had no language for. It helped me navigate and make sense of a world that I struggled to fit into and it helped me process that internal world that loomed large inside of me.
For the last several years, the “maker” side of who I am sat dormant. A combination of my focus on my career, my mental health challenges, community projects, and relationship dynamics shifted my priorities away from the things that imbued that special side of me. That isn’t to say that I didn’t find ways to be creative. I’d venture to say that I’ve always infused creativity into anything I developed. But, I chose to live a life outside of art being my “official” profession. That comes with a certain level of sacrifice I had to make.
I stepped into 2023 knowing that it would be a pivotal year for me. It would be a year of deep self-discovery, challenge, and transformation. The prior year left me a bit sour and so I wanted to take that energy and step back into what gave me joy. Art was a core piece of making that happen, but I didn’t know how desperately I needed it.
It was a warm, August afternoon. The air was thick with an incoming storm and I was a bundle of anxious energy. All of my efforts this past summer were leading up to this moment. I propelled myself forward into the gallery, balancing a vase, a bouquet of flowers, and the deep longing for the day to be over. The family of women who owned the building were in the midst of putting the final touches on the gallery. Affirming words and warm smiles attempted to soothe me. I swallowed the knot in my throat, filled the vase, and made one final adjustment just as the first person walked through the doors. Just like that, my first solo art exhibition opened to the public.
I remember the day that I agreed to the exhibition. It was nearly a year prior and I shrugged, responding affirmatively in the most noncommittal manner I could muster. At that point, it was far enough away that I hadn’t yet felt the sense of fear and uncertainty in my own skills what would inevitably consume me. Over time, there were few other mentions of the show exchanged and I filed them away in the back of my brain. Months passed and the summer’s heat crept closer. Then I got the official email. Dread consumed me and the sense of urgency intensified. Contrary to what it may seem, it wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about the show in that time. But, despite by best attempts to establish a consistent drawing practice, I found myself turning my attention to everything but that.
Yet, I unintentionally saved myself. In my desire to lean into more art in 2023, I had offhandedly mentioned to a friend that I was interested in exploring ceramics. I knew his partner, another friend of mine, was a ceramics artist and they had recently moved into a larger space. Functional art has always intrigued me. I’ve collected pieces from studios big and small. The idea of crafting my own was enticing and so I made the comment casually during the winter, and honestly forgot about it. Turns out, my friend truly heard me and so I made an agreement to take private lessons over the course of the summer.
In six sessions, we would build my familiarity with the medium and establish some sort of foundation to see if it was something I was interested in exploring further. The first session was the most transformational. As my hands sunk into the overly wet, spinning clay, I felt an ease with the creative process that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I wasn’t concerned with being good or creating anything perfect; just curious. If I adjusted my hands ever so slightly, the clay would center itself or wobble its shapeless body. If I pulled just right, the hole I made with my thumb would enlarge and a more familiar shape would begin to form. I felt connected to my own body and the material in such a visceral way. The moment I got home from the studio, I started drawing for the first time in months.
As it turns out, by placing myself into an unfamiliar situation, it enabled me to let go of the preconceived notions I had about myself, my skill level, my vision, and opened me up to finding the joy in creating again. What was also so interesting was that even in the process of building the show, I faced moments of failure and instead of wallowing, I cursed under my breath and started over or kept working past the disappointment. And, it wasn’t just because I had committed to something, but because I was less afraid to pivot if need be.
Through luck and a release from the fear of failure, this was how my show was born.
Concentricity: A reflection on nature and interconnectedness
So, what is “Concentricity”? By definition, it is when two or more objects have the same center. I named my art exhibition this because to me, everything is connected. From the land we till for food to the air we breathe, it is all connected and so much of that connection is through fungi. I’ve been deeply interested in this world beneath the surface and what it has to share with us. I wanted to explore this connection between us and nature, but also the relationship nature has with itself. I wanted to be both a participant and an observer of this reciprocal process.
The show was set up to guide the viewer through a story across mediums. Upon entering the gallery, the viewer is greeted with the title painting. It is followed by paintings illustrating themes of life and love, death and grief. Fungi connects nearly all of them. Gouache, a water reactive paint that I used, has a bit of a mind of its own and I felt the organic nature aligned with what I wanted to express. I hid little nods for those curious enough to go searching and infused one with a bit more of everything I had to give. Countering the paintings were photographs from my wanderings and I layered a video, a fragrant bouquet, and a small sculpture to appeal to other senses. I wanted to tell the full story of how I experience the world in bloom. The vividness of smell and familiarity of texture grounds me to this place. My memories are triggered by those senses. The sharp, bright smell of the pine after a rainstorm that calls me back to the Pacific Northwest. The texture of udon on my tongue made me feel at home even when I was halfway around the world. Everything is tangled together to create a patchwork of my life story.
And over the course of those five hours, people absorbed what I had to share. A steady wave of family, friends, and strangers walked through the doors. It was emotional, a touch overwhelming, but a sublime experience nonetheless. By the end of the evening, I had sold 13 of the 15 pieces available for purchase and I was left speechless. My phone lit up with well wishes and promises to see the show when they were available.
At the end of the day, this show was about connections. It was about love. It was about grief. It was about hope. It was not perfect, but I didn’t need it to be. This show reminded me that although I’ve spent the last several years focusing my attention on supporting other artists, that I was still an artist too.
