Another Line

7 days ago

3 min read

Last Monday afternoon, I rushed to the studio after a hectic morning of sessions and the gym. I had a few hours before the kids and teens came for their afternoon sessions. The studio was filled with light and classical music, and there I was again with my new drawings. Pastels, markers, colored pencils, everything spread around me. My body was tired, and my mind was racing. I was breathing in and out, and I let my hand take me. It always knew where and how. In every drawing, the lines are different. In this one, they are broken, strong, searching, paving new ways.

What keeps me showing up is, first of all, the love of the work. Another line, and another line. And then there is another layer, a belief that the work will arrive where it should, and everything will be fine. It doesn't come from an optimism that is disconnected from reality. It's almost an inner discipline. Without it, I can't continue. But together with the belief, there are always doubts and tons of insecurities. Especially in a world that is saturated with more rejections than approvals.

So when I received the email from Gorman, saying they wanted to build a homeware collection around one of my paintings, my automatic response was: it's a lie. Even after I signed the contract and received the check, I had to trust a design team on the other side of the world that I had never met. A different culture, a different season, and a time zone that isn't seven hours ahead, but a whole day. I sent them everything they asked for and waited to see what they would do with it.

A week turned into a month, and a month into a few months. Every delay felt like a void, and when I'm in a void, I'm in a loop. Reality was telling me everything was fine. A big, trusted company, a serious contract. But I heard nothing, and the longer the silence, the more afraid I was to ask. It will never happen, I told myself. It was supposed to be winter. When I finally wrote, they told me my colors belonged to summer. Summer came, and with it the same ritual: silence, nerves, the fear of asking. Eventually I asked. Spring, they said.

I learned to keep going from Babi, my grandmother. She lost everything in her life, her family, her wealth, her home, the world she was raised in. And despite it all, she kept moving forward. She believed life is something you take with both hands. She was the one who helped me come to the US. She paid for my first year of art school here. I think she knew what I didn't know back then: that there was an artist inside me waiting to come out, and that it could happen far from home. She was the engine behind it. She's still my engine.

It's spring in Australia now, and here in Brooklyn it's October. This week a beloved friend sent me pictures from one of the Gorman stores in Sydney, with my items on the shelves. Gorman sent me the first images from their photo shoot. And another friend wrote that she had just ordered a few pieces for her home here. It's real. It's somewhere in the world, in people's homes, with Babi's story. I'm humbled. I don't even know how to grasp it yet.

And I'm back in the studio. Another line, another line.