Last night, we attended an art show. A big one. In an actual museum. And I was one of the artists.
We were asked to pose for a photo on the red carpet. We got escorted into the gallery, passing a line of people waiting to get in. We even got congratulated by complete strangers just for being in the show. I was hardly expecting the royal treatment that we received. I was just thrilled to be in a museum show at all.
As I walked past the wall of art work, I realized that I could no longer fall back of any of the “I’m not a real artist” excuses that I’d been leaning on most my life. No, I didn’t go to art school. I have no formal education, no studio, no following. I participated in my first art show because my husband asked the curators for permission, not because I got an actual invitation.
But since that first show several years ago, I have participated in half a dozen more shows, exhibiting—and selling—my work. I have gotten hired by clients to design and draw things because they like my style. I have even been featured in a book about other artists.
Whether I like it or not, I am an artist. And last night, I let myself celebrate.
After the show, I pulled out of the parking lot, cutting off a shiny black Escalade. I was feeling giddy and, I’ll admit, a little bit high on myself.
“You just cut off George Takei,” Rama said.
“Oh, shit,” I gasped. “Sorry, Sulu!”