Believe, Believe, Believe.

The Struggle: Balancing Art and Security

Mesmerized by the play of shadows, I often find myself lost in their depths. Last night, as I walked in shadows, for a moment, fear gripped me—living without the security of a steady job, dedicating my time to making art, is a scary place to be. I know my work captures fleeting moments, blending light and shadow to evoke mystery and connection. Yet, living that reality without the safety net of a traditional career sometimes feels precarious.

Henry David Thoreau once said, "Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit." This resonates deeply with me, as painting often feels like savoring the taste of a perfect pear. When you sink your teeth into its divine flavor, the world fades away. Painting, like eating that pear, is immersive. The stillness, focus, and reverence for something so simple yet profound make the act of creating a sacred experience.

That said, painting is both easy and difficult. It’s easy to lose myself in the process; it’s hard to make it financially sustainable. Connecting my art to the world feels daunting and reminds me of my earlier struggles. School was a labyrinth I could never quite navigate, tangled in the challenges of learning disabilities (is that even the term we use anymore?). One of the few things I was praised for was my art. I remember a painting of yellow stars on a blue background that my teacher displayed long past its time. Beyond that brief recognition, reading, following directions, and fitting into the structure of school felt like one step forward, two steps back. And that struggle didn’t end when school did.

While others seemed to find their footing, I felt stuck in the mud of indecision. I poured energy into turbulent relationships, moved from one university to another, and worked a string of jobs that offered neither financial stability nor a long-term connection. From guiding bicycle trips to teaching snowboarding, from running a bike shop to working for Parks Canada and teaching in the Middle East, I felt like a drifter. People told me I lacked commitment, but what I was really searching for was reassurance—a sign that I was on the right path.

Amid all this chaos, there was one constant: art. Through all the moves, questions, and fears, I sketched and journaled, trying to untangle my inner conflicts and make sense of the world. Art was always my lifeline, the one way I could connect with a world that often felt distant and indifferent.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. Many of us are searching, asking the same questions, feeling like boats adrift, waiting for a tow or the next breeze to carry us forward. I’m endlessly grateful to my family, who listened to my stories and patiently threw me lifelines when I needed them most.

Now, as I step back into the art scene, I am sometimes apprehensive. People say making it as an artist is not a secure path forward. But after so much searching, I believe my art practice is anything but aimlessness—it’s a way to anchor myself. It’s work I’m good at and something the world needs. It feels less like a choice and more like a path I’ve been walking for a long time. And perhaps, in embracing my vulnerability and concerns, I can uncover something beautiful—not just in the art, but in life itself.

If I need any assurance, I find it in the simple act of baking bread. Fresh bread, warm from the oven, is a reminder of life’s simple pleasures. Like painting, baking requires presence, patience, and a love for the process. Each brushstroke, like kneading dough, is necessary step and an act of creating something honest and essential. The canvas becomes a space to reflect on life’s rhythms and to celebrate sustenance like the daily bread.

Here’s to art, bread, and living deliberately.