There is a small wooden box in my studio. It’s a bit scruffy looking with a plastic black handle on the top and a little rusty latch holding it closed. On the front, in heavy black felt marker, “Mike Gunderson” is written in blocky letters. I use it to hold my watercolor palettes, but its true utility and value are invisible. No one casually looking around my studio and noticing it would know what it means to me.
The box was a gift, given to me when I was 17. I was wrapping up high school, which I spent profoundly disinterested in classes and trying to hide difficulties at home, just getting by in a half-dissociated state most of the time. My high school sat, literally, between cow pastures on one side, and artichoke fields on another. I could not wait to graduate and move on, though to what I couldn’t say. I wasn’t sure about much of anything, but I did love to draw. Drawing was my personal escape hatch, a portal out of my surroundings and into my imagination, and I drew on almost any nearby surface–the desks, my jeans, my notebooks, my hands, the margins of books, and especially the sketchbook that I carried around everywhere in my backpack. Maybe some of you can relate.
My guidance counselor at school noticed that I was struggling. But instead of focusing only on what was wrong, he focused mostly on what was right: my interest in art. He went out of his way to spend extra time with me. He often pulled me out of class just to chat about music and art. I showed him drawings and he didn’t praise or advise much, he simply paid attention. He became one of only a few adults I trusted at that time.
Shortly before I graduated, he called me into his office and gave me the little wood paint box that he used for his art classes in college. It still had a few tubes of old dried paint in it, rolled up from the bottom, smelling of linseed oil, his name written on the front in black marker. It’s been 36 years, and I still feel the encouragement and attention embodied in that box.
That gift planted the idea that making art was something that I had permission to do. It was an unspoken token of faith in my future. It taught me a lot about the impact of small gestures:
Listening
Showing up
Paying attention
Acting generously
Asking good questions
Holding space for difficulty
Giving feedback when asked
Celebrating success wholeheartedly
In the arc of my art-making, I’ve received countless small gestures like these from teachers, mentors, students, and friends. Sometimes we have opportunities to do big juicy momentous things for one another– helping with a studio move, writing a reference, making a connection to a curator or gallery, and inviting one another into groups or shows. But more often, the seeds of generosity are small, the gestures subtle. They accumulate and grow, helping one another along the way.
Gleanings…
San Francisco Excursion: If any of you are curious about my watercolor collection, some are from Daniel Smith and Windsor & Newton, but most (and my favorites) are from a very small local San Francisco company, Case for Making. All of their colors are non-toxic, hand-mulled in their shop, and packed into half pans. Their brick-and-mortar store in the Sunset district is a treat, and they offer affordable classes as well. A perfect artist date: Art supplies at Case for Making followed by perusing the handmade and vintage goods at General Store. Pick up a coffee and a snack from Damn Fine Coffee, and meander a few blocks west for a beach walk. Bring a sweater!
I went down a Zoe Keating magical musical rabbit hole this last week and I have no regrets! I love how she breaks down her process in this live performance/interview:
Thanks for reading, and thank you for the “likes” and comments last week! They really make my day. I would love to hear your stories—what small gestures from others inspire or ease your way as an artist? Was there someone in your past who encouraged you in a meaningful way?
Warmly,
Lisa
Great story. The people who encourage our true nature and direction are precious. You were so lucky to have his encouragement at such an early age.