I’ve made art all my life, but often in stolen moments when I was busy elsewhere. I often considered myself a scholar, an academic, an arts writer, a blogger, or a digital communications professional, but I never really defined myself as an artist. Not professionally, at any rate. Yet now, as I devote more days to drawing and journaling, I am inclined to bring the word “artist” out of the shadows and into a bolder place on the resume.
Many late-blooming artists know this story, particularly women who set aside artwork for a couple of decades for the work of marriage and child rearing. Many men know this story, too, trading in artistic aspirations for professions deemed socially more practical. I’ve seen these late bloomers wandering the aisles of art and craft stores, looking for companionate shoppers to tell their story of long-buried aspirations coming to life again.