A DEEP WAVE OF REGRET SWEPT OVER ME as I hung up the phone. I had been talking with somebody I'd met at a recent gallery opening. He taught arts management at a local university, and when he learned I was trying to get established as an artist, he offered to give me some tips on getting a portfolio together. But soon into the process, he was anything but encouraging about my chances of success. In fact, his parting shot suggested that he'd no longer be available to talk with me on a casual basis and would now need to charge me an expensive hourly rate for advice.
As I mentally replayed my life, I kept chastising myself for missed opportunities. All through school and college I'd been told I had real talent as an artist. But I never focused on fulfilling that promise. The truth is, I resisted the hard work and discipline it takes to do anything well. I thought I could coast on talent alone.
When I was in my 20s, I moved to New York City, and all the details fell into place. I landed a living space in a downtown SoHo loft, in a building full of working artists. Down the line I got a great day job working for a filmmaker, which gave me the freedom to study at night at the prestigious Art Students League. But somehow I couldn't get on a forward track. Even admission to a graduate program in painting at Pratt Institute, a top art school in the city, didn't pan out —and I quit early in the semester. After rehearsing all this past for days after the phone conversation with the art coach, I felt a serious sense of self-loathing. How could I have been so stupid as to blow all those chances back when I had them? Feeling increasingly depressed, I kept flashing back to that New York City chapter of my life, when I would take rides on the Staten Island Ferry just to get some space. But the space would inevitably fill with a sense of aimlessness.
