Every social event I’ve attended in the last few months has been plagued by one question in particular: “Ella, what are you doing after you graduate in the spring?”
Disguised as lighthearted small talk, this awful question causes me to stumble over my words, enunciating responses such as “masters,” “internship,” or “backpacking.” Their ears tend to perk up at the mention of attending art school, which makes me wonder if a fine arts degree is the right answer to my dilemma.
My mom is an artist, so I’ve painted since my fingers could balance a brush in one hand. She taught me everything I know about art and the creative process—and, more importantly, how to observe and have fun like a kid again, finding joy in the act, rather than the product.
I’m the only one out of my three older siblings who paints regularly, if at all, which has awarded me a special bond with my mom in a space that merges our perspectives into one.
When I was little, we painted side-by-side. I was her mini-me, copying her movements and stealing colours from her palette so my canvas mirrored hers as closely as possible.
We’ve spent the last couple of summers painting together on our veranda, blasting music and sneaking bottles of wine like rebellious teenagers, hiding from my grandma, who would condemn us for such fun. The hours spent painting are fleeting and before we know it, we’re surrounded by darkness, mosquitos, and two paintings that testify to where the day went.
On my birthday last January, I was feeling homesick. With most of my friends away on exchange, I felt sad and alone in my room, but instead of wallowing in self-pity, I painted. While I was painting, it felt like my mom was with me—or rather, she was a part of me. This was when I realized painting is a necessity for me and will always play a part in my life.
Being an artist is certainly not as glamorous as the media makes it out to be. Growing up, I watched my mom turn every room of the house into her rotating studio. She paints in between cooking meals, cleaning, drives to practice, games, and recitals, all while looking after both of my grandparents and ing my dad.
She places everyone else’s needs above her career as an artist, and with what little time she’s alloted herself, she paints. Her profits go towards groceries or tuition, so when she runs out of canvas, she begins painting on the walls. That’s usually when my dad scrambles to the art store, returning home with a canvas.
Last summer, I worked as a bartender at an art gallery where I met a lot of interesting individuals, as well as the inevitable few snobs. The art world I observed in Vancouver was a small bubble, consisting of wealthy artists with reputable names, attempting to hold onto their momentary fame as their audience grows old with them.
These acclaimed artists often show many massive, forgettable beige abstracts that all look the same. Nevertheless, pretentious art folk flock around them, pretending they’re in on some sort of hidden message conveyed in the acrylic. In these cases, it’s more about the name hanging on the wall than the actual arrangement of the paint.
Some of these artists are truly talented and their works are undoubtedly iconic, but others are mere masters of marketing.
The discrepancy between originality and success has puzzled me since I was a child. I wandering around galleries while my mom conversed with someone from her life before us kids, tugging on her shirt to declare, “Your paintings should be up there!” She would smile and tell me to lower my voice.
But my opinions have remained the same. The world doesn’t need more abstract florals. I didn’t think so when I was eight years old, and I don’t think so now. I struggle to see the value in hotel lobby art, which somehow sells for thirty grand a piece.
Unfortunately, the art world arbitrarily correlates talent and skill with success, which makes me doubt the value of art school and instead, consider making a TikTok .
Despite my mom’s formal education in fine arts, she doesn’t recommend attending art school. She says I’ll spend the rest of my life unlearning the framework they’ll instill within me. At the same time, she hypocritically encourages me to never exclusively pursue art as a career, as money spoils one’s ion and adds unproductive pressure. Seeing her battle with the business side of the art world, I hope to never use painting as a financial crutch. Instead, I want to keep it for myself as a sacred outlet—which I’m privileged enough to have discovered early on in life.
So, when people are surprised that writing is my first love and I’m unsure about art school, I tell them it’s because I’ve learned more about creativity from my mom than I ever will in a classroom. Sure, I’d love the opportunity to learn new techniques and mediums, however, I’ve observed the most intuitive artist for the last 18 years, and I continue to learn something new every time we push paint around together.
Art school will always be there if I have a change of heart. But for now, I’ll be on the porch with a wine glass in one hand and a brush in the other, painting with my mom.
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Mary-Beth Whyte
Beautifully said Ella! I too learned how to paint from your Mom. She’s so inspiring, and a true living breathing artist