How I Failed, Ruined My Life, and Still Came Out a Winner.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” -Maya Angelou

So after reading last week's comments, I've been busy tweaking and fine tuning “How to Craft a Killer Exhibition Proposal” so that it's ready for the big launch on the 4th of JULY!

And I gotta tell ya, writing this thing has brought up all kinds of memories and unexpected emotions.

I originally started writing this guide because I wanted to help other artists, but it’s clear to me now that I really wrote this guide for myself.  

Creating this guide was like writing a tiny love letter to the artist I was a decade ago. The artist who was really quite lost and couldn't quite find her way.

So, it only makes sense that I should tell you my story.

Warning: This is not a short story, but it is a great story!

The Beginning

Some artists have known they were artists from the time they got their first box of crayons.  I was not one of those people.

I was already the wise old age of 16 before I took my first art class. That said, as soon as I had my first real taste of the dizzying freedom and possibility art had to offer, I was hooked.  I just knew I had to go to art school.

By my 22^nd birthday I had studied sculpture, printmaking, photography, and had a BFA in painting.  I was well versed in a ton of fascinating techniques, and I could talk about art till I was blue in the face, but I had no idea actually how to make a living as an artist.

I was clueless and completely unprepared.

Filled with vim and vigor, in 1997 I moved to New York City to work on my MFA at Hunter College.  I was still totally unprepared, but I figured, that with the magic of New York City on my side, I’d piece it all together along the way. 

 

I didn’t. 

Grad school was a terrible struggle for me.  I hated the work I made.  I felt disconnected from the majority of my professors and classmates. I had zero self-confidence.

In 2001 I finished grad school just as confused about what it really took to make a living as an artist as when I went in.  

Again--I found myself clueless and completely unprepared.  Plus now I had $60,000 of student loan debt looming over my head.

The years that followed were dark ones. 

 

I was completely overwhelmed by my life and I lived in a constant state of exhaustion. I spent my days in a revolving door of crappy day jobs, and spent my evenings drinking and making friends with almost every bartender on the lower East Side of Manhattan.(Ok, that part was actually pretty fun.)

But then things got worse.

On September 11^th 2001, my coworkers and I at the Brooklyn Museum all gathered around a top floor window and watched helplessly as a dark cloud of smoke and ash from the burning World Trade Center towers made its way over into the Brooklyn sky.

For me, the initial shock and disbelief of that day quickly gave way to an intense sense of clarity:

 I had to make a choice between New York City and my art. Ironically, after having only wanted these two things for as long as I could remember, as it turned out, I couldn’t find a way to keep them both.

Two days later I called my mother and told her I had to leave Brooklyn.

On Halloween I packed my stuff into a rented mini-van and handed my apartment keys to my landlord. 

That day was one of the lowest points in my life.

 

I felt like an absolute failure.  No, I didn’t just feel like a failure.  I had failed.

Somehow, I had done everything I was supposed to do, but it had managed to crash and burn.

Game Over.  

I’d ruined my entire life. 

Of course in retrospect, the exact opposite was true. 

            

Starting Over

I spent the first few months after leaving Brooklyn living in my mom’s spare bedroom in Upstate New York. 

I worked three jobs to pay off my student loans:  I worked at Rite Aid as a film developer (yes it was that long ago), I worked at a beauty salon, I even did telemarketing for a paper company. (Which I was incredibly good at I’ll have you know.)

I spent the evenings making artwork in the basement of the house with only the sound of a clunky old washing machine to keep me company.

The artwork I made was awful. I mean REALLY, crazy awful.

As it turns out, it’s hard to make artwork when you truly believe in your heart that you are a failure.

Mostly what I was doing down there in that basement was hiding. 

I was hiding and healing.

In the spring of 2002 my spirits were still pretty low, but I was thinking clearly enough to know that I needed to make some big changes if I didn’t want to stay stuck in that basement forever. 

In April I got my passport, borrowed $600 from my mom, and bought an airplane ticket to France-- partly because it was my birthday, partly because I desperately needed something to celebrate, and partly because I just needed to get out of that basement.

I met a lovely Frenchman in Paris. This is the picture of our first date...

I married him 18 months later.

The Juicy Middle

I married a complete stranger and moved to France.

 

If you think this is the part where everything suddenly got easy, you need to reread that previous sentence.

My first year in France was awful. I was lonely, I was homesick, and worse of all, I had to learn to speak French!

Luckily, the stranger I married had more faith in me than I had in myself.  Even so, it was nearly 2 years before I found the courage to start making art again. 

Eventually, baby-step by baby-step, I started putting all the broken pieces of my art career back together again.

I learned to use the internet to connect with other artists and people who were interested in my work.

I made new work and started sending proposals to exhibition venues.

  

I forced myself to get out to exhibitions and meet new people in my local art community even though I could barely speak French. 

I did everything I could think of to get my art out into the world.  I didn’t always get it right, but at least I was doing it on a regular basis.

It took me a few years before I started actually making any money, but eventually I started making as much or even more than I ever had at any one of my crappy “day jobs”.

It wasn’t much money, but at the time, it was everything.

Fast forward a few years….

This isn’t a Disney movie and I don’t believe in “happily ever afters”.  

In fact I’m not even sure how or where to end this story. But let me leave you with a snapshot of what my life looks like right now:

I wake up every day excited because I get to do a job that leaves me happy to be one of the many blessed beings on this planet. 

I create artwork in a gorgeous studio in my gorgeous home, which I affectionately call "The Barbie Dream House".

I have a small but dedicated group of collectors who are always eager to see what I’m working on and I have 1-2 exhibitions a year where I get to meet and greet them in person.

I’m constantly inspired by my friendships with artists, curators and art dealers who are always up to some new and interesting project.

On the weekends my husband and I take weekend getaways to neighboring European cities to see exhibitions and treat ourselves to “fancy lunch” at new restaurants.

 

I have a handful of consulting clients who are an absolute joy to work with and who teach me nearly as much as I teach them.

And last but not exactly least, not only do all my bills get paid on time, I make enough money to buy myself a few guilty pleasures every now and then.

I sleep well.  I eat well.  I live well.   

And I want YOU to have all of these things too.

Every time I get a desperate email from an artist asking for help, I get a familiar tight feeling in my chest.  I get that feeling because I see a reflection of myself in each and every one of you.  

All this to say:

I understand exhaustion/overwhelm/fear/sadness/depression/isolation.

I have been exactly where you are right now.

So hear this:

PLEASE don’t give up on yourself before you reach your “Juicy Middle”.

You might not be able to see it yet, but it’s coming for you.

Get ready!

BIG Love,

-Kesha★