Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,   
And sorry I could not travel both   
And be one traveler, long I stood   
And looked down one as far as I could   
To where it bent in the undergrowth;    

Then took the other, as just as fair,   
And having perhaps the better claim,   
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;   
Though as for that the passing there   
Had worn them really about the same,         
 
And both that morning equally lay   
In leaves no step had trodden black.   
Oh, I kept the first for another day!   
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,   
I doubted if I should ever come back.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh   
Somewhere ages and ages hence:   
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—   
I took the one less traveled by,   
And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost


Let's talk about the life of a painter. What would ever possess someone to take up a profession that they know, probably, will offer them a life of hard work, long hours, solitude, little to no chance of retirement, all for very little in the way of monetary rewards? I'm not talking about someone who just goes along in life and ambles their way from one job to another. No, I'm talking about those of us who have gone to school, or worked to become a fine artist. People who's goal is to paint for a living, knowing that there are many jobs waiting for them which will pay far more than they could make as an artist. What on earth are they thinking? Are they even thinking at all? Joe Innes in his wonderful book, "How to become a Famous Artist and Still Paint Pictures", tells the prospective artist to lock himself up in a room or a cabin.  Somewhere, far from any TV, books or distractions of any kind and just think. Think about your dream. Try to picture your life as an artist. Not just the fun stuff, but the business side of things too. Ask yourself the question as to why you want to do this. Imagine all the road blocks and difficulties you will encounter in your journey. Things like schmoozing clients and galleries. Attending show openings. Ordering frames and framing your pieces. Attending paintouts. Marketing and self promotion. Doing the books. Paying taxes. That's if you make enough money to even pay taxes. Do this until you have turned it over and over in your mind forwards and backwards. When you've done this, and not until you've done this, ask the important question- Do I Want To Be A Painter? If your answer is no, go home and don't ever let it trouble you again. You can still paint, have a hobby. No harm no foul. You just don't have what it takes to make it your profession. If yes, go home and work with all your might to get there. Do not let anything stand in your way. If you have children, the process will take longer, perhaps much longer, but you can still do it.

The only poem which I have committed to memory (and can share with you here on this public blog) waaay back in junior high and retained ever since, was Robert Frost's The Road Less Traveled, or The Road Not Taken. Something about it resonated deep inside me, even at that young age. Looking back, I believe I understood that that would be me. Or that I wanted it to be me. Or just maybe, everyone wants to be that traveler. In any case, for those readers of this blog who have never had the fortune to read it, or who read it so long ago that it's just a distant memory, I included it above. If you just skipped over it because, well....it's a poem by gawd, and I don't do poetry, allow me the indulgence to share it with you now. Yep, even real men read poetry from time to time. Cowboy poetry is still very popular out west. You gonna tell them cowboys they ain't manly? I thought not. Go ahead and read it. I promise it won't hurt, and I won't tell anybody. Don't worry , I'll wait...




Not too shabby huh?

Of course the poem is not just about making the choice between the path to the right or the left. It's ultimately about the big life choices, and how, once they are made, you can't or won't turn back. I imagine there aren't many artist's alive, who don't see themselves as the mysterious traveler. So what makes us do it? Why would otherwise rational fully functioning, live-by-the-book, gotta cut the grass on Saturday, God Country and Apple pie, common sense kinda people throw that sense right out the window and paint anyway? I can answer for myself only. For me it was always a question of Music or Art (...Both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black). Some kind of creative career. I could have, and probably would have been a musician, except for a single event back in high school. I went to a State music competition and figuratively choked when I had to perform my competition piece in front of the Judges and a room full of musical directors from a number of colleges from across the country. I had gotten cocky and not prepared as well as I should and froze like a deer in the headlights. Devastated and embarrassed at the time, I looked toward my art, which I told myself, I could do in private, work out all the problems, and only then show it. No performance anxiety. Problem solved, There's my path. Of course, the very next year, during my summer break from College,  I was working at an amusement park, airbrushing t shirts in front of thousands of people each day. So much for not having to perform in front of people. Thanks to that gig, I got over the working in "front of people" jitters in a hurry.

After college, I was working my way up the commercial art ladder. First as a storyboard/comp artist at an advertising agency, and later at an illustration studio. Then as a freelancer and finally as the lead illustrator for a package design studio. Life was good. Bought a house and fell in love. I got married to the love of my life. Then we went on our Honeymoon (great timing huh?), and that's when I found myself standing smack dab in the middle of that dang poem. I had always wanted to paint, but was always too busy to try it. That week, in northern Minnesota, at the peak of the fall colors and my new wife by my side, I had my calling. Something told me it was time to start. It wasn't a midlife crisis. I understood that it was just time. I was standing at that divided path. I had a choice to make. I could let it go, no harm no foul. Or I could commit to making my dream a reality.  Of course I made the choice to follow that less traveled path and there's no turning back. Painting is the second most important thing in my life. That tells you how I got to painting, but not why I have to paint. When I ask other artists this question, most will tell you, "Because I have to". It's something we are compelled to do by something so deep within us, I believe it's close to what only can be described as Instinct. Many will tell you it's about leaving a legacy. Something that will last longer than the memory of who we were that lingers in the minds and hearts of those who knew and loved us. We have something to say that simply has to be said in paint. I suppose it's my way of leaving my mark that says, "I existed. And I did something to try to make other people happy. This is my small gift to the world." All of that is true. But for me there is one more reason why I paint. It's also about the joy of getting to be creative everyday. And that when I'm creating, I feel closer to God and his power and beauty than at any other time. It's about feeling his power and gift flow through me. In short, I'm happier when I'm painting and feeling in some small way a part of it all, than at just about any other time in my life. And that has made all the difference.


 Happy Painting, Steve

Steve Atkinson Studio Blogspot