The Journey Home

“Sure!” I beamed without skipping a beat. I’d just received a carte blanche invitation to paint literally anything my heart desires upon my brother’s broad loft wall. It was a smooth, crisp-white wall. A row of tall windows to the right revealed the green crowns of ginkgo balboas and the fanciful white gables and buttresses of the historic Governor’s Mansion just across the street. The wall was hemmed in by steel beams and polished concrete floors, just as one would expect of a midtown loft. It was dreamy.

I peppered my brother with inquiries as I measured the walls and began dreaming of designs. But my generous patron was unyielding. With a smile he refused to provide any direction whatsoever.

Thus began my journey. I had been set loose in a wilderness of possibility. My mind was bubbling over with the adventure of having complete creative freedom. I quickly realized I’d never been “off the leash” in this way, at least not publicly. My artistic endeavors had always been tethered to client needs and preferences. But my brother, thanks to a large age difference and physical distance for many years, was in many ways a new friend, and what familiarity we do have lends itself to a wide open horizon. His taste, by his own admission, is a mystery to himself. Strange, wonderful, whimsical, and eclectic art pieces were strewn about his new abode. I examined them for a common thread, for any clue of what might make a welcome addition to the space. But the only commonality I could extract was a penchant for bold surrealism.

With only this prerogative to direct me, I was brimming with ideas. But I was uncertain which would win the day. Accustomed to providing mock-ups for approval, I pitched the ideas to him and hoped he would nod me in the right direction. He once again sidestepped my efforts to get his opinion, but he did provide me one important clue. He said he wanted to be able to look at it for a long time, for it to entertain his guests and draw attention.

So, I dug deep and chose to follow my deepest instinct:

I chose to paint a story.

I started the journey bright-eyed with a fistful of brushes and red Flyer wagon full of paint. The first pass was easily the most rewarding. To block in the fluffy domes of the clouds was nothing short of pure, free-hearted fun. Covering the crisp white with the 70s-inspired jewel tones was simply delightful. The atmosphere of the loft shifted in the span of a couple hours, for the better.

The following weeks would involve more tedious work, however. The layered curves of coral, strawberry, and muted plum would occupy most of my time as I made mistakes and learned my lessons. Some sessions felt frustratingly inconsequential, and I learned to divide my time between detailed work and more dramatic changes to keep the wind in my sails - a technique I’ll keep top of mind in my other projects as well.

Bit by bit, the mural took shape. It took much, much, much more time than I anticipated. My methods were inefficient at first. I didn’t have an iPad and Apple Pencil until the last few weeks of the project - which meant I did things the old fashioned way, with graphite pencil on the wall and a lot of stepping back to view it and adjust. I had to work out the best order for layering the colors. The cool-toned grey-plum would not be easily covered; neither would the deep strawberry. To be honest, I had to accept a lot more losses than I wanted to. And the capstone of the project, the central scene within the keyhole, was a terrifying battle between my vision and my skill. (More on that later.)

But, with time, I grew more and more efficient and effective. I learned a lot about the technical process of designing and applying a mural, but I also learned valuable lessons about my internal process and preferences. As much as the crisp-white wall changed, I changed just as much if not more. This project was my gateway. I stepped through the threshold and accepted myself as a visual artist on the other side. For as long as I can remember, I hid my capacity for art in private sketchbooks, refusing to self-identify as an “artist” or even a “creative person” for many, many years. It’s been a slow journey to open up to myself. It began with going back to school to take some graphic design courses. Next came bullet journaling (@amandarachlee @shaydacampbell), which was quickly followed by the hand-lettering (@pomeloandpen). Privately, as I began writing books, I dreamed about cultivating my illustration skills to adorn the pages of my own stories. But I was not yet ready to identify myself as an aspiring illustrator or artist.

Now, after years of quiet self-exploration, I was finally able to walk through that gateway, from closet-artist to a gal who does a mural and shares it on the Internet. What a journey!

When I look at this mural, I see a wonderful portrait of that personal expedition. Hiccups and all, I’m proud of it. And so, so grateful I was given the opportunity to explore and express my own soul in this big way.

I wonder what story you see when you look at the finished piece? A storybook quest? A mythical adventure? I’d buy you a drink any day to hear all about it! It’s fascinating that art tells a different story to each viewer. I wonder if the “finished” canvas isn’t finished at all, but rather just a splash pad for each unique soul to project its own stories upon.

But to start the conversation, I’ll share with you the story it was telling me.

The rich tones of the clouds and sky, and their smooth shapes, emote the pleasant simplicity and warmth of a hero’s tale. The silhouettes continue this theme - a ship, a castle, a dragon, mountain peaks - all icons of adventure. The details don’t matter in this part of the story - it’s more about concept and theme. When I look at this part of the painting, I am whisked back to every childhood tale that aroused a sense of heroism and adventure in me. I think about the grand themes - risk and reward, loss and gain, valor and honor. I think about potential and possibility, and there’s a strong sense of journey in this scene which fills me up with energy.

Then there’s the central scene in the keyhole.

This portion, of course, is distinct from the rest. It was the capstone to my story. In the weeks I labored over this mural, I painted the keyhole solid black, and it held its place patiently as I finished the golden clouds and silhouettes. In the planning stages, I had played with the idea of painting a vibrant, formless swirl of rainbow within the black keyhole. At other times, I thought maybe I’d keep things simple and leave the keyhole a black void. But as I neared the end of the project, I surprised myself and dreamed up a plot twist. Just before my deadline, of course, in true author fashion!

The scene within the keyhole represents to me a different questing realm. It’s a story within a story.

I painted it with art-grade acrylics instead of interior house paint and employed a variety of brushes to evoke a more painterly effect. Let me be the first to confess: it was a stretch for my skill as a painter. I have shockingly little experience with painting. I’ve definitely spent exponentially more time watching videos of painting versus picking up the brush for myself. This was a true challenge of my adaptability, teachability, and resilience.

It was a big risk. One I questioned the entire time as I desperately tried to improve my skill as I went. But, ultimately, I’m so thrilled I stuck with it. The childishness of it has its own merits, and I’m so glad I allowed myself to be imperfect. There’s something enjoyable to me about seeing art that isn’t over-perfected. Of course, we all love mastery; to see a work of genius in all its hard-won glory is a delightful thing. But there is good in art that is rudimentary too. It serves a different, but meaningful purpose, and it is often lost in our over-curated, over-filtered world . To me, the story is not lessened for want of skill. The simplicity of the painted scene reinforces the free-hearted, childish whimsy of the whole piece. The journey is not to move from storybook to masterpiece. It is, perhaps, to move from a place of earnest, simple principle into the textures and blemishes of the present moment.

And that, my friends, is a story that nourishes my soul. What more could I ask?