After spending days feeling equal parts excited and terrified, my first art gallery show is behind me. And wow… people came. A lot of people. The streets were full, the shops were buzzing, and glasses were clinking all along the streets of Avondale.
And there, hanging on an actual wall in the Avondale Arts Alliance small gallery, was my art.
Framed. Lit up. Seen.
That part felt surreal.
For so long, my paintings have existed in my studio, seen only through my own forgiving eyes. Seeing them displayed publicly felt entirely different. More official somehow. More vulnerable too.
Because the truth is, my style looked very different from almost everything hanging beside it. Most of the other artists had incredibly realistic work. The kind of art that immediately makes people say, “Wow, that’s talented.” Perfect shading. Colors found in nature. Serious art.
And then there was mine.
Whimsical angels with simple faces. Scribbles. Layers. Bright colors. Folky and wonky.
Standing there, I had this moment where I thought:
Did a child make these?
In a small, insecure way.
Like maybe everyone around me were “real artists,” while I was still over here creating with paint and intuition like an elementary school kid.
I also became painfully aware of my prices.
A lot of the artwork around me was priced lower than mine, and I immediately started questioning myself. Who did I think I was charging these prices for whimsical faces and messy layers surrounded by technically perfect realism?
Maybe I should have priced lower. Maybe my work isn’t good enough yet. Maybe people only pay higher prices for polished, traditional art.
But somewhere in the middle of all those thoughts, another one showed up.
My work looked like me.
Not someone else’s style. Not chasing realism because it feels safer or more impressive. Just… mine.
And the truth is, pricing art isn’t about technical perfection. Every artist prices differently. There’s no universal formula. It’s part hard costs and part the intangible something that makes the work yours.
I’m still learning how to stand beside my work without apologizing for it. This is part of being an artist too.
Nothing of mine sold during the show. Even though I had no expectations of selling, I think every artist quietly hopes for that moment of confirmation. That their work connected deeply enough for someone to bring it home.
But I don’t feel defeated. Because something else happened instead.
I saw my art outside of my own protective little bubble, taking up space in the world. And even though it felt exposed and wildly different sitting beside all that realism… it also felt real.
And maybe whimsy belongs on the wall too.
