Last night I participated in an art show called Mutual Subjects. The premise was simple and slightly terrifying: artists were paired with one another and asked to create a portrait of their partner. I was paired with David Woods. When I was first invited to participate, I was excited by the idea, but also very aware that I am not a portrait artist. I paint, obviously, but painting a person felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory. There is something different about trying to capture a face. A landscape or an object will usually forgive you for getting it wrong. A person has the inconvenient habit of looking like themselves.
Still, I said yes, and I am very glad I did. The process of painting David became its own little experiment. I had never completed a portrait before, and I approached it less as an attempt to prove I could suddenly become a portrait painter and more as another excuse to make something, learn something, and see what happened. I ended up genuinely happy with the painting. Then I saw what David had created of me, and it was amazing. There is something strange and wonderful about seeing yourself interpreted through another person’s eyes. You recognize yourself, but you also encounter something that could never have come from your own mirror. That alone made the entire experience worthwhile.
The show itself was equally great. The gallery was full of interesting work, the artists were kind, the people hosting the event were welcoming, and every conversation I had was enjoyable. There was nothing uncomfortable about the people. Quite the opposite. And then, about twenty minutes in, I left.
This is becoming a pattern.
I have been showing my work more frequently lately, and I have started noticing something about myself at openings and events. I love arriving. I love seeing the work. I love talking to artists. I love talking to the people running the space. I love seeing familiar faces and having those first natural conversations that happen when everyone is getting settled. Then the room fills. At some point, the crowd reaches a certain density, the easy conversations have mostly happened, and I find myself standing alone in a room full of people. Something in me quietly says, Okay. Time to go.
It isn’t dramatic. I don’t feel rejected. I don’t think anyone dislikes me. I don’t dislike anyone there. I am not miserable or overwhelmed by some obvious social catastrophe. My nervous system simply seems to have a very clearly defined occupancy limit. Once we hit capacity, the evacuation procedures begin. So I leave.
Last night I went home and played cards with my family, perfectly happy with the evening I had just experienced. But I started thinking about what those early exits might mean. For a long time, I have understood art primarily as creation: make the thing, put the thing somewhere people can see it, make another thing. The more I participate in shows, though, the more obvious it becomes that art also has a deeply communal dimension. Artists support other artists. People introduce one another. Conversations become collaborations. Friendships form. Someone remembers your work. Someone invites you into another show. Someone tells you about something happening that you never would have encountered otherwise. A lot of art happens long after the paint dries.
And I realize that by leaving early, I am probably missing some of those moments. That doesn’t make leaving wrong, but it does make the pattern interesting. There seems to be a point where my natural social engagement ends and a less structured kind of social navigation begins. The first part feels effortless. The second part feels like work. Apparently I am much better at talking to a person than I am at inhabiting a crowd.
That is something I would like to experiment with. Not fix. Not defeat. Just expand a little. Maybe the next show I stay ten minutes past the moment when my brain announces that we have completed our scheduled programming. Maybe I find one more conversation. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I leave after twenty-five minutes instead of twenty. I am not especially interested in turning this into another metric by which to judge myself. I do not need to become the guy who closes down every gallery opening in order to prove that I belong there. But I am curious about what might exist just beyond the point where I usually decide to leave.
The important part is that I keep showing up. I want to keep showing the work. I want to keep meeting artists. I want to keep participating in things like Mutual Subjects that push me into making something I might never have attempted otherwise. I want more opportunities to see how other people approach creation, to be surprised by what they make, and to contribute whatever small thing I can to the spaces that make those encounters possible.
And I want the artists I admire, the people organizing these events, and the galleries opening their doors to know something that may not always be obvious when I suddenly disappear: I am having a wonderful time. I am grateful to be invited. I am grateful to be included. I am probably much happier to be there than my early exit suggests.
If I slip out quietly before the room has emptied, it is not because I didn’t enjoy the experience. It may actually be because I did. I showed up. I saw the work. I talked to people I was happy to see. I participated. My cup filled quickly, and apparently I have a habit of taking the full cup home rather than hanging around to see if anyone can squeeze another ounce into it.
Maybe community does not require becoming someone who stays until the lights come on. Maybe it is built more slowly than that, through repetition. Through showing up again. Through making the work, saying yes, remembering names, having another conversation the next time, and becoming a familiar face in a room that once felt unfamiliar. Maybe belonging is not measured by how long you remain at any particular event, but by whether you continue to return.
So that is the plan. Keep painting. Keep saying yes. Keep putting the work on walls. Keep walking into rooms that make me slightly uncomfortable. Stay a little longer when I can. Leave when I need to. And come back again.
Because despite my occasionally suspiciously efficient appearances at art openings, I really do love being there.