My (Art) History

Way, way back in college, I’d been an Art History major. I knew even then that I wasn’t going to work in a museum or gallery — I wasn’t sophisticated, and quite frankly, I didn’t like talking or reading about art when I didn’t have to for my classes. I chose it because I’d gotten to my sophomore year, we had to choose a major, and I’d been taking an introductory art history class that was easy and therefore more enjoyable than my English or Psychiatry classes. Oh, how I wish I’d gone to college at 30 instead of 20!

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Not sophisticated? My hair begs to differ!

The Art History major also demanded that we take a certain number of Fine Arts classes. I’d never been able to draw — which I now realize means I’d never learned to draw — and that precluded me from thinking I could ever be an artist and from diving in and being a Fine Arts major, which is what I really should’ve done in the first place. I’d thought Art belonged solely to those kids in high school who were always sitting around with sketchbooks and didn’t even mind when you looked over their shoulders, because their lines were always strong and sure, so unlike the timid little scratches I created whenever I’d give drawing a try. Instead, for these Fine Arts classes, I stuck with the decorative arts, jewelry and ceramics, which seemed like something a non-artist like myself could do and love.

But despite my intimidation in college, I was always curious about painting. After moving to Maine with my then-new husband, Pete, I took a class at a local college which shall go nameless. Mind you, I loved the class. I bought some student-grade paints, set up a little studio in our apartment, and spent a good chunk of time attempting to paint difficult things like metal spoons. And I did learn a couple of tricks, like how to measure the relative width of things using your pencil, and how to… well, I’m sure there must’ve been other tricks; it was an expensive class. But I didn’t learn in any kind of systematic way, I never improved very much, and eventually I sold my easel and moved on to other interests and hobbies.

 

 

 

Why now?

Every Christmas, my very generous, very loaded Aunt gives my husband and me a check for $500. For a couple in their middle years (I’m 48) with steady incomes, $500 is not life-changing money, but even my allotted half feels like a chance to be wildly, selfishly impractical in a way that I normally never am. I don’t think of my daughter when I think about how to spend that money; I don’t think about beefing up our meager savings or re-enameling our rusting bathtub. I think about Botox, or an Etsy splurge, or something full price from Anthropologie. I think about that check all year long.

Last November brought the MCAD (Minneapolis College of Art and Design) Art Sale, an uber-popular annual event that I’d never attended. I love decorcarefully filling my home with unique and wabi-sabi things I’d collected through the years – but the word Art sounded expensive. Still, it was free to attend, and our friend Gerry, who worked at the school, assured us that it was student work and therefore cheap. Maybe I could finally find something to replace the Ikea poster in our bedroom.

We went. It was, indeed, cheap – and expensive, low-brow and high-brow and everything in-between. Bad drawings of toilets and perfect little portraits of grandmothers. Photos, and jewelry, and wall-sized paintings of someone’s nipple. I bought two little prints for ten dollars each and came away knowing how to spend this year’s Aunt-money.

I decided to learn to paint.

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Me, with husband Pete, daughter Olive (look hard!), and Governor Dayton at the Minnesota State Fair. Yeah, we’re buds.