An insignificant small circle.
I had no idea what it meant as I peered at the tag identifying my painting.
It shocked me to see it hanging there although I had personally hand-delivered it just a few days earlier.
And, of course, I had come. Despite my reluctance. My resistance. My apprehension.
Here I was.
Entering the small gallery I tried to blend in. No need to acknowledge that I was one of the artists. In fact, please don’t.
Thoughts came down hard, “I don’t belong. You’re not an artist. Why am I here?”
Doubts. Fears. Insecurity. Comparison. The list goes on.
There is nothing fun about this first art exhibit. Nothing.
Eventually, a tag is found. I am labeled.
No more hiding.
Despite my desire to leave I need to see all of the artwork again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Through the lens of grace.
I understand better than most that the “The Healing Power of Art”, the theme of the exhibit represents the artist’s hollow place. A place of deep reserve. Buried but tender to the touch.
Art heals by touching both the artist and the viewer. Whether you love it or hate it. There is value and meaning.
Engaging with art stretches us.
Eventually, my heart quiets. My shoulders relax. I loosen up.
I am approached by a couple who seem eager to meet me.
Confused, I listen as they say words like, “bought your painting, the first of show to sell, tell us more.”
Heart racing I walk with the buyers back to my painting. Words tumble out as I express meaning that is lodged deep within. Eyes glistening with emotion.
Eventually, I laugh with comprehension.
The red dot explained.