V. H. King's Ink

A few months ago, someone in a co-working group advised me to submit to a juried exhibition in Chicago. At first I was confused—I don’t live in Chicago, how would I submit to a museum there? And submit to a museum?! I’m nowhere near that good. I read through the submission information anyway, and found myself with a sinking feeling in my gut.

I could submit.

What was even worse was that I kind of wanted to. I really wanted to, if only to get one juried art museum submission under my belt. I’ve submitted to more art exhibits than I thought was possible this year—mostly because I never thought I would submit to anything. Submitting to a juried exhibition felt like a way to keep my momentum and push myself out of my comfort zone. Local libraries and community galleries were one thing, but a museum? That was a big step. It still is a big step, because I ended up not submitting anything.

My godparents happened to visit while my first piece was on display in a group exhibit at the library. My dad was intent on taking them to see it—and I didn’t mind this, because I wanted to see the other artists’ work again. I found myself shying away from their praise and congratulations, wishing to duck out of sight.

I’m not a professional.

That’s what I told them, anyway. I wasn’t trained, I didn’t know what I was doing, I was just…a disabled kid who painted because it brought them joy and helped them grieve. That was all. Professionals have networks and resumés, they get residencies and do solo exhibits. I didn’t have that. I wasn’t ready for all that. Couldn’t I just stay small and putter away behind the scenes? Did I really need to be perceived?

Choosing not to submit to the juried exhibition in Chicago wasn’t because I didn’t want to risk being chosen. I decided against it because, even though it was a goal on my list, it wasn’t worth pushing myself beyond my capacity to do it right that minute. October was a rough month for me. There were two other deadlines I didn’t submit to, plus a literary festival that I missed for the second year in a row. Add to that the short stories and poems I couldn’t entirely pull from the soup of my brain, and it was starkly apparent to me that I needed to slow down. Ironic, given I was also preparing to table at an author fair the following month.

Another thing that happened in October: I got to meet a new friend at Dreamscapes & Belief , a show where two of my pieces were on display. Going into it, I was a touch intimidated. This was someone whose art had been selected for the BUTTER Fine Art Fair several years in a row, someone whose work had appeared in a number of exhibits that had spurred me to finish LitMiH. And now I was…going to talk to them? About one of my favorite paintings I’ve ever done?

Despite being a mess of star-struck anxiety, I set aside all my internal screaming for a minute. From our initial meeting and our brief communications, I knew this person was passionate about their art in the same way I was passionate about mine. I respect their work, I appreciate their perspective—and to honor that, I showed up without my usual self-effacing excuses. BUTTER had pushed me to take up space, and here was another opportunity to let myself be perceived. I stumbled over my words, sure, but I was honest. I was present. I allowed myself to be.

I’d joined a writing group in September, and midway through October I shared a poem with them. It was another exercise in getting used to talking about my work. To my surprise, I discovered I could explain my approach to sharing my writing with confidence precisely because I’ve been agonizing over it for the last five years.

When I recently joined (yet another) Discord server, I found myself tasked with doing an introduction. I can’t say “I’m not a professional” anymore—but I’m not not a professional. There’s still something unbelievable about calling myself an author and artist. It’s in my bios on social media of course, but saying it to folks I interact with on a daily basis? Frequent interactions with people who not only read my writing and see my art, but encourage me to keep sharing? It’s an unexpected community. It’s a big step. It’s challenging me to grow my comfort zone instead of jump out of it for a quick second before dashing back under my blankets.

I’m still not ready for solo exhibitions. I don’t know if I’ll submit my work to any museums in the next few months. Whether in a voice chat virtual hangout or a library study room with fellow writers, I know I can take up space. I don’t have to get it right every time, and some days I’ll feel braver than others. I carry with me the care and encouragement others have shown me, and I commit to showing that to myself and others. I might get around to the professionalism part of it one day, but for now, I’m most grateful for the permission to be a person.