Chasing Rainbows; Joy of Beginnings

By Sarah Playle

I step into my apartment and laugh in happiness and relief at the chaotic mess it's in. Bits of black and orange construction paper sit in uneven piles, where they mingle with shavings of cast off white matting, and small balls of used tape. I stop and smile; the mess not bothering me the way it normally would, because this time it is a mess with a purpose, a mess that speaks of a job completed and well done.

I flashback to earlier in the evening. The father picks me and the artist friend up at my apartment. We are going to hang my first display, but first I need to print out a bio at the library. The library is crowded, and I am frustrated with the lack of computers. The father waits for me in a loading zone. I said I would be two minutes. I stand in line to reserve a computer. A man with greasy hair, and some mental problem speaks loudly and shoves in front of me in line. I say nothing, not wanting to start a fight with a crazy person. He comes again though when I am having trouble with the printer. The librarian tells him twice, "Go to the desk," firmly. The man, crazy, or drugged, I'm not sure which, finally leaves. The librarian overrides the computer and manually prints my bio, and then I am back in the van heading to Cook Street. The father drops us off, makes sure we're in okay, and then leaves for home.

We come into the coffee shop with my artwork and bags of supplies; chain, hooks, holders, tape, Windex. We come over prepared, but this is my first display and I do not know what I need. We get the hooks and set up camp on a small table near the wall that my work will be hung on.

It is evening and quiet. One girl sits on the far end of a sofa near us talking on a cell phone. A few other patrons read papers over hot coffee. I climb the shops small ladder so I can reach their picture railing and balance precariously to hang the chain we brought. Then the artist friend does the same thing to measure where to hang the drawings. As I work, I feel I should act professional, as if I do this all the time, as is this is no big deal at all, but when it is all done and I stand back and see my hard work displayed for the very first time ever I laugh out loud and all of my professionalism act drops. In that moment I do not feel like pretending to be anything I am not, I just want to be what I am, a young dreamer enjoying her very first art display. I know that whether I become a great success or a great failure, I can enjoy the moment when my art is, for the very first time, displayed to the world.

The artist friend takes out her camera, and I pose proudly by the display. The camera flashes, once...twice. The coffee manager smiles at me and I know how I must appear, like such a beginner, a dreamer, a hopeful, not even close to the professional artist I want to be. She says, "They're very pretty," and for a moment I am filled with self-doubt, thinking, are they? Does she truly believe that or is she just staying it to make the dreamer happy? The artist friend wants another shot. I push my doubts away and pose again, thinking, what does it matter if the compliment is real or fake? In this moment I choose not to worry about the critiques, the sales, the career, the future, or anything at all. Instead I choose to savour a beginning that, no matter where my career takes me, will never happen again.

When the artist friend is done with her photos, I take out my own camera and take shots of the display. And as I capture my first artist steps on film, I try to also capture them in my heart; the feeling of completion, of success, of pride, knowing how much work went into each simple drawing - the hunt for the right size frame, the battle with how to do the matting and not wreck the mixed media beads, the three failed attempts at my fourth drawing and finally pulling it out the night before my debut, where I sat by lamplight on my floor for an hour wrestling with the custom mat until it was just right. Others may come in and see a simple drawing with some nice matting, but I will always know the creative focus and energy it took to make each piece come out just right. And as stand back and look at the drawings, I know, that no matter what other people may end up thinking of the work, I have the right to feel proud.

As we leave the coffee shop, our supplies packed up and ready to go, the artist friend stops and takes two more pictures. I see a man frowning at having a camera focused on him. Normally I care about such things, but that night I do not. I want the photos taken. I want to remember this day, this moment, I want to remember it in case I ever do become known, so that I will always know where I came from and how humbly I started.

The artist friend and I walk home together, and say our goodbyes at Fort Street. I head back towards my apartment, drinking cold Starbucks coffee bought hours ago, and as I do, I feel a sense of completion and also an odd sense of emptiness. My first display is done, so where do I go from here? I think this as I admire the beautiful trees in bloom, the blossoms such a light pink they're almost white. I cross the light and ride the elevator to my apartment, where I step into the creative mess. There is still so much more work ahead of me in my career, but at that moment I stand still and breathe and let myself settle in the happiness of a beginning and a moment that will never be repeated again.