On the bumpy road to Sell…

Or how I made the brave decision to start selling my art…

 

I love painting, I love drawing, and doodling; creating intricate worlds woven with colour and golden thread. It has taken me many years to wear in my Artist’s Shoes, they have pinched and rubbed for so long, feeling uncomfortable, wrong, somebody else’s shoes, definitely not mine.

But I persevered, I kept trying them on, sneaking them out of the cupboard when the kids were in bed, only to throw them off in tears thinking I was kidding myself, they would never be comfy, they would always look and feel like somebody else’s shoes. I felt like a little girl tottering around in her Mum’s high heels, pretending to be a grown-up.

But there was something compelling about those shoes, those grown-up Artist’s Shoes. I wanted to wear them, I wanted to strut my stuff in them, I wanted to own them.

So I persevered, I kept on trying, until slowly, gradually I started to notice how they moulded themselves to my feet. They felt soft and comfortable. So comfortable in fact, that I could go for hours and hours wearing them, absorbed, passionate, loving the feel and the fit, never wanting to take them off. Not always though, sometimes I stumbled in those damn shoes, like a ridiculous bambi catwalk model, and I’d take the stupid shoes off and throw them across the floor, swearing I’d never wear them again….

But my husband, my best friend, would gently pick them, and me up, slip the shoes back on my feet, tell me how much they suited me, were the perfect fit, were just perfectly ‘me’. And I’d sigh, and cry, and put the damn shoes back on..But only in private, these were strictly bedroom shoes! Okay, maybe more like house slippers, but definitely not to be worn outside, in public, because then people would know that I was just pretending, just a little girl in grown-up shoes.

“But they’re gorgeous” my man would say, “You need to go out and show them off..” Really? I started to look at myself in the mirror, look at myself wearing Artist’s Shoes, and slowly, gradually I began to believe he was right, maybe they did fit me, maybe they did look kinda cool even? So finally, after many previous abortive attempts, one day, in my 49th year on this planet, I stepped out of the front door wearing my Artist’s Shoes. Because I had decided that I didn’t care any more what people thought of my shoes, for me they were the comfiest shoes I’d ever worn, they were a perfect fit, and they bloody well suited me.

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