September 6, 2023
Recently my daughter and I were walking, and she said “Mom, can I have some of your artwork to hang in my apartment?” We had been purging the basement and out of the annals of hell was my artist portfolio. Her question made me stop and suddenly I couldn’t contain tears.
In high school I was asked to create a stain glass window for the our chapel. I was scared when asked by my art teacher who believed in my talents, knowing this window would be permanent. I felt the pressure and weight of creating something that would be there years after I left. I worked hard on that window and was proud of the results. With this teachers encouragement I applied to study at more renown art institutions after graduation. I was accepted into the highly competitive UCLA School for Art, as well the prestigious Ecole Nationale Supérieure Beaux-Arts, but my father upon learning of my acceptance said “June Marie, artists don’t make money. How do you ever expect to earn a living?”
Now, my father of all people was an excellent writer and dreamed of writing a book one day but was equally talented at drawing. I recall finding a pencil drawing of a tiger he created as a young adult that was tucked away in his desk drawer next the wad of cash he kept rolled up in that drawer along with spare change and pens. Perhaps his own artistic talent was minimized as unimportant when he was young. Perhaps his own practicality won out. Whatever the reason clearly he judged art to be frivolous and this was passed along to me without thought or contemplation. His words rattled around in my brain until eventually I quit art.
My daughter placed her hand on my arm, “I didn’t mean to make you sad.” I assured her she did not make me sad. My strong feelings caught even me off guard and I didn’t speak for a bit. As we continued walking, I eventually spoke in a quiet voice. I shared with her that fine art in college means being critiqued in front of the entire class. I have vivid memories of standing in front of a large room feeling vulnerable and naked as the teacher torn my work to shreds in front of all. One teacher was especially critical. He often said he was harshest with those he believed to have talent, as if to justify his cruelty. This was the culture of art school. It is the norm for an art student.
None of that mattered as I stood there a young 19 years old in front of a room of 60. Unlike other college studies where the grade and work is kept private between student and teacher, art and writing demand exposure to criticism. My guess is this is an institution’s way of preparing artists for the real world’s acceptance of their work. Much like how the military tears one down and builds them back up to make for a stronger soldier. The irony is once you learn to create from the heart, the artist becomes vessel instead of creator, in this space you no longer consider an audience. The artist removes self and gives birth to something new often times surprising themselves. The art becomes bigger than the individual and more expansive than the self. It demands to be birthed.
The the pain of being publicly critiqued was extremely difficult for me. I recall unveiling to the class a charcoal drawing of a ballerina I had poured my heart into for countless hours forgetting even food and drink. His criticism of the shading technique I had used imprinted itself on my soul. I remember digging my nails into the palm of my hand to ensure I did not cry. I would not show him his effect on me. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.
This stoic exterior I developed during those years has been a mask I have practice time and again over my adult life. No matter how much pain or grief life brought my way, I would not show others the deep scars that were left on my tender heart. My closet in the dark a receptacle for tears but upon opening that door I would pretend to be strong and impenetrable. This practice of stoicism has never served me well in relationships. I have worked hard to undo stone exterior I created along the journey. My work in exposing the soft contours of my heart, to not just tolerate but celebrate the sensitivity of my heart, is an ongoing journey for me.
This photo above is of 2-year-old me. It captures a glimpse in time of my reverence, wonder and awe of the world around me. In the album beneath this photo my mother wrote “We thought about changing June’s name to Love.”
Love demands expression and weeps at tenderness and beauty in the world. Love is not reserved only for the worthy, its flows to all because it can not be contained. Love is what the artist expresses each time they pick up their instrument regardless of the subject matter. This life force, this mystical energy, cannot be killed or destroyed. Love may be buried beneath criticism and scars but the human journey for me is one of returning to the essence of who I was made to be instead of who life told me I had to become.
The Sacred and Mundane 