V. H. King's Ink

Two weekends ago, I went to the first ever Black Art Market held at Newfields.  And the week leading up to it?  I was ridiculously nervous.  I am terrible at small talk. 

My autism keeps me on the flatter side of affect, unless I spend (at least) 85% of my energy during a conversation making sure my face is doing what it’s supposed to.  Of course, that doesn’t leave a lot of focus for actual words—either my own or the ones someone is saying to me.   Add being prepared to talk about myself on top of that? 

I knew that it was an opportunity to meet the artists I quietly admired from afar.  To me, these were Real Artists, out there doing Real Art Things!  Teaching classes, collaborating on murals, participating in events, and curating exhibitions.  Was I intimidated?  Absolutely!  But this was more than just a meet-and-greet.  This was a chance to ask about resources and opportunities, so I dared myself to speak my dream.  After all—hadn’t I just said that I wanted to work my way up to tabling one day?

The thing about daydreams is that they’re a great mental escape.  Saying it out loud doesn’t necessarily make it real—but there is something to hearing myself say it.  As I talked to artists at their booths, sharing my hopes of participating in an art market someday, the repetition helped. 

I want this.  I’m looking forward to it.  I’m hoping.

I asked about vendor forms and professional development programs and opportunities to get involved—and I got answers! I took notes, I followed accounts, I sent thank-you messages. After I made a list of the organizations and opportunities folks pointed out to me, I spent most of the weekend researching. 

The first thing I needed to do was refresh my memory on what was what and who was who.  If the fast-paced conversations weren’t already a lot for my brain to keep up with, it was HOT out there. Heat drastically impacts my fatigue and cognitive processing—so while I rested indoors for the remainder of the weekend, I worked on filling in the gaps and reading through details about programs, organization, and funding.

All the information I found prompted another round of questions.  What would it take to be in a position to apply to these programs or become a volunteer? What can my body handle? How much focus will I need when navigating all of these interactions? Am I prepared for 18 months of events, classes, panels, and collaborations? None of the artists I’d met, followed, or messaged could answer those questions for me.

As much as I hope to participate in art markets one day, I suspect there are other ways for me to use my art to connect with others.  That’s what I want to do, right? Yes.  And. I have to give myself time.  Even if I set a goal of building a portfolio in order to apply for fellowships and write project proposals, that’s not something I can dive into right away.  I still have to wait…and that scares me.

Will the program still exist by the time I’m well enough to apply? Will funding for the arts be completely gutted like everything else? Will I even still live here, or will I have moved someplace where I have to start over from scratch? What if I’m never well enough to be involved in the arts the way I hope to be?

I don’t know the answers to those questions.  There are no guarantees when it comes to these things.  When I met with a friend the other day for lunch, I told her about the conundrum of wanting to do art but not feeling like I had the capacity to participate in formal programs or pursue whatever licensing or credentials needed to establish myself as competent and committed according to external standards of success.  looked at me for a moment and then said:

“What I’m hearing is there’s a template that you’re trying to fit yourself into, but that’s not where you belong.  What aligns with you—your path—there is no template because it doesn’t exist yet.”

A welcome and rude reminder of what I’ve been trying to tell myself for the past year. I have to live my way to the place I need to be.  There is no formula, no roadmap.  Sometimes, it takes someone else reinforcing the things I already know to help them stick.  Yes, something cosmically uprooted my life—but that loss, the change, the letting go, is necessary. 

How I approach this time of uncertainty and transition will shape my character for decades to come. I am learning the kind of person I am, and the joys I find, and the treasures I cherish, when everything falls apart and there’s no clear vision of the future.