Today I woke up early, the kind of early that usually requires caffeine, courage, and a reason. The reason was a meeting at the Whittier Art Gallery for a group show coming up this January. Art people, gallery walls, possibility in the air. I was in.
The meeting went smoothly. We introduced ourselves, shared background stories, talked about our work, our books, our motivations. They seemed genuinely interested in both my art and my writing, which is always a good sign. You can usually feel when a room is politely nodding versus actually listening, and this felt like listening.
Then mom spoke up.
She casually mentioned that she likes to draw too. Nothing flashy. Just an honest sentence. She added that her own mother discouraged her when she was young, put it down, made it feel small. I felt a little pang hearing that, but also thought, okay, nice moment, moving on.
I honestly thought I had it in the bag at that point. A relationship with a local gallery. Momentum. So I did what artists do when they feel brave. I asked about the possibility of a featured show for my work. What would that look like? Would they consider it?
Instead of answering that question, a gallery representative smiled and said, “We’d really like to see your mother’s art.”
Wham.
Just like that, mom stole the show without even trying. No portfolio. No pitch. Just presence. I couldn’t help but laugh internally at the irony. After decades of me chasing art shows, the gallery wanted to see what mom had been quietly hiding under the bed.
On the drive home I thought maybe I’d buy her a gallery membership for Christmas. Something symbolic. A way of saying, your art matters. She declined, humbly, the way she does. No fuss. No need for applause.
But later at home, she reached under the bed and pulled out several papers. What came out felt like a little treasure chest. Drawings. Studies. Saved pieces. Proof of a creative life that never stopped, even when it was discouraged.
There have been times when mom seemed to discourage my art too. Not out of malice. Out of realism. It’s a tough profession. Unstable. Unforgiving. But seeing her hidden work today made something click. She wasn’t rooting against me. She was protecting me. And maybe, quietly, rooting for me the whole time.
As for smoking, still no cigarette. Day 73. Mom is proud. And today reminded me why that matters.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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