Our theme for the month of June is “snapshots.” Writers were asked to submit a piece with a cover photo that they took or created.

I went to Windsor’s annual art fair last week in a local park. It was a huge exhibition, where hundreds of local artists set up booths and displays in the hopes of selling their wares: jewelry and woodwork, pottery and photographs, paintings and candles. 

I love crafts and even majored in studio art, but I’ve always found art fairs to be an awkward experience. The artist sits right there in the booth, watching you size up their creations. I feel guilty if I don’t show enough enthusiasm and avoid eye contact at all costs. If our gazes meet, I feel obliged to say something to the seller, or at least to give a smile to assure them that what they’ve done is good. 

But at this fair, that mindset changed when I encountered the “fine art” exhibits. At first I was eager to find paintings to enjoy, but I ended up satisfied, in a twisted way, each time I could size up someone’s body of work and think to myself: that’s not fine art. 

An oddly-textured jellyfish. A clumsily-blended landscape. A portrait with awkward proportions. In my head I was almost gleefully putting down the paintings I saw. That sky looks like it was done at a wine-and-paint night. This is worse than hotel art. And the final conclusion as I walked smugly by: I can do better.

Maybe I can. But do I? Not really. 

Looking back, I feel like I was emanating the pompous old lady from Pride and Prejudice who utters the hilarious line about piano, “If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.” 

Maybe I’m not quite as bad as her. I have learned how to paint, and I have a number of projects that I’m proud of. But I finish a maximum of one painting a year. These local artists, on the other hand, are truly committed to their craft. They’re the ones with discipline enough to generate dozens of paintings to sell. They put themselves out there, bravely displaying years’ worth of their effort to the public. Who am I to judge the fruit of their hard work when I hardly paint at all?

I hoped I’d finish a lot of artwork during my time of unemployment after moving to Canada. Certainly I could use that free time to hone my skills and create beautiful pieces to hang on the walls. 

Instead, I felt paralyzed by the open-ended days and overwhelmed by the motivation these projects required of me. I’d agonize over small aspects of my painting in progress until I got so sick of it I refused to look at it for weeks. 

I only finished one painting.

Now, working a nine-to-five tech job, I worry often about wasting my creative potential. I always knew I didn’t want to pursue my majors—writing and art—as full-time careers. But I’m frightened of squandering them entirely. I’ve always struggled with having the motivation and discipline to put my creative abilities to use. 

the post calvin’s monthly deadline has been amazing to get me to sit down and write. If not for this external expectation of me, I wouldn’t be doing it. It’s the same with painting. Of the few pieces I do finish, almost all have been wedding gifts that I’ve promised to friends. If I’m only painting for me, I’m not painting at all. 

After I wrap up my time writing for the post calvin next month, will I have anything left to write about? After all my friends are married, will I ever finish another painting? 

In our new home, I recently hung up my series of five paintings of houses I’ve lived in. I remarked to my husband that they probably encompass at least 120 hours of work.

“Wow,” he said. Adding cheekily, “That’s almost as much time as you spent playing Zelda last year.” 

His light teasing hit me hard. I have time to beat an open-world video game, but in that time, how many paintings could I have finished? How many writings could I have submitted for publication? Are those even fair questions to ask myself? 

Painting is a joyful activity for me, but it’s also work. Am I prepared to put as much work into my craft as those artists at the fair? Can I change the deep-rooted habits that make it so hard to build momentum in creative undertakings? Am I a waste of talent?

I’ve moved seven times since graduation. Each time I bring my collection of blank canvases, stretcher frames, and unfinished paintings, packing them from one closet only to store them in another. I feel like they taunt me, reminding me of my unfinished business. Of what I could have been accomplishing. 

But I’m trying to let go of the need to be great, of the urge to be the most talented person in the room. Let go of the expectation that if I’m not amazing, I’m nothing. I can look at those artists at the fair—the good ones and the bad ones—and be inspired by their dedication, not ashamed of my lack thereof. I’ve finished some great artworks. And this is my fiftieth article for this blog. Fifty! I’ve never been able to maintain a habit for that long. Sometimes I open up my writing archive just to say to myself, I did that. 

I’m trying to look at those blank canvases, not with regret for the past, but with hope for the future. They’ll be in my closet waiting when I’m ready to pick up my brush and paint.

Laura Sheppard Song

Laura graduated from Calvin in 2015 with a degree in art and writing. She lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband Josh and dog Rainy. She works as an IT support analyst and enjoys painting, rock climbing, and exploring the city.