The first art show of the year is over, and I’m waking up this morning with that rare kind of exhaustion that feels a lot like gratitude.
Nearly 30 paintings found new homes.
That sentence still feels a little surreal to write.
This was my first time ever showing art at an outdoor event, and if I’m being honest, I was unprepared in more ways than I realized. I brought with me the usual beginner’s mix of excitement, uncertainty, and the quiet hope that if I kept moving with enough confidence, maybe it would look like I knew what I was doing. Amazing weather and a beautifully organized event helped keep that illusion alive. At least somewhat.
But underneath all of that, something real happened.
Family and friends showed up. Others reached out throughout the day to wish me well or ask how things were going. As someone who can disappear into thought for long stretches of time, I’m always humbled by the people who continue showing up for me anyway. That kind of presence never feels small. It reminds me that even when I retreat inward, I’m still being held up by people who care.
And beyond the people I already love, I had the chance to talk with other artists and with dozens of people who stopped by the booth. Some bought work. Some lingered. Some connected. Some of you reading this may have found your way here through one of those conversations, and if that’s the case, I’m genuinely glad you did.
Welcome.
One of the most meaningful parts of the day was the way I handled pricing. After years of selling things in more traditional ways, it felt unexpectedly good to step outside that framework. For each painting, I told people the most I would take for it, then invited them to choose an amount beneath that number that worked for them.
That was it.
No pressure. No strange performance. No hard sell.
What surprised me most was how naturally people understood it. There was no confusion and no awkwardness. People seemed to immediately grasp the spirit of it. Some paid more than I would have expected for smaller pieces. Others, who may not have been able to afford a piece otherwise, were able to take something home. It created the kind of exchange that felt human before it felt transactional, and that mattered to me more than I can easily explain.
It still does.
Now that the event is behind me, I’m left with the kind of question that doesn’t have a neat answer: where do I go from here?
There are more shows on the horizon. More possible paths. More ways to imagine what this could become. But beneath that, I find myself sitting with a deeper uncertainty. I want the work to find homes. I want it to live with people. I want it to matter in the spaces it enters. But I don’t have much desire left for the machinery that usually surrounds selling.
I’ve grown social media channels before. I’ve built businesses. I understand the language of marketing, persuasion, and attention. I know how that world works. But at this point in my life, I just don’t have it in me to perform that particular dance anymore. The desire to convince. The desire to push. The desire to constantly package yourself and your work into something more digestible, more marketable, more easily consumed.
That part feels over.
Or at least no longer central.
So maybe the answer, for now, is simple. I’ll keep painting. I’ll keep letting the work become what it wants to become. I’ll keep feeling grateful for the people who show up, for the people who take pieces home, and for the people who pause long enough to really look.
And Monday morning, when the art store opens at 9, I’ll walk in and buy more canvases.