When the Path Shifts Beneath You
Sometimes things kind of just hit you—and everything changes.
I was walking through my dining room yesterday, not in any kind of contemplative mood, just passing through like I always do. But there, resting on the table, were the framed pictures I’d recently picked up from a couple of gallery showings I participated in back in April. That table often acts as a temporary holding space for anything that hasn’t yet earned a permanent spot in the house. These five framed pieces are in that limbo right now—beautiful, finished, but homeless. I haven’t had to store physical artwork in quite some time, so their presence is both unfamiliar and oddly symbolic. Eventually, they’ll make their way into future art shows once I’ve built up a larger, more cohesive body of work. But for now, they’re in waiting.
And yet, when I glanced over and saw them all together, I stopped in my tracks. It was one of those subtle yet undeniable moments where something internal stirs. I decided to spread them out across the table, just to look—really look—at them again. It’s honestly quite satisfying to see them all framed and professional-looking, like they finally became what they were meant to be. There’s a quiet pleasure in remembering they were viewed and appreciated by others, that they had their moment on a gallery wall under good lighting, part of something shared and larger than myself.
What surprised me, though, was what caught my attention most. Of the five pieces, I found myself feeling more connected to the landscapes than the flower compositions—and that puzzled me. I had genuinely loved the idea behind the flower work. They felt unique, even a little edgy. Something a bit different from what I’d seen out there, and certainly from what I’ve done before. Landscapes, on the other hand, are more traditional. Safe, even. And I’ve never really seen myself as a traditional type. I like to push boundaries a little. But still, there I was, leaning in closer to the landscapes, feeling pulled in.
Maybe it’s the time that’s passed since I last studied them, or maybe it’s something deeper that’s shifting. I don't know. What I do know is that, standing in my dining room, surrounded by those quiet little windows into natural places, I felt a spark. A pull toward something I hadn’t fully acknowledged before.
As someone without formal training, I tend to consume a lot of content about art and artists. Articles, videos, interviews—I’m always looking to understand where I fit in, what my voice is, or if I even have one. In the past, I’ve found myself more concerned with what others might want to see rather than what I feel compelled to create. There’s a recurring debate in art circles about authenticity—whether “true” artists create only for themselves, as opposed to creating with an audience or market in mind. I hear this over and over, and it’s left me second-guessing my intentions more than once.
The truth is, I love to create. But I also want—need—my work to be seen, valued, and yes, purchased. Making a living as an artist isn’t easy, and it feels naïve (if not impossible) to disregard the practical side of things. Still, that internal tension is always humming in the background. Am I selling out if I make something I think others will like? Am I being self-indulgent if I create something purely for me, with no consideration for its marketability? Most days, I don’t have an answer. But I keep showing up anyway.
Which is why this sudden draw to landscapes feels meaningful. If I’m truly excited about them, not just strategically planning to make something others might buy, then maybe I’ve stumbled into one of those rare overlaps between passion and purpose. Landscapes have a kind of universal resonance. People love familiar scenes. They spark memories—trips taken, roads driven, seasons remembered. I’m starting to think about focusing on scenes from around Virginia. We’ve got such a range of landscapes here—mountains, coastlines, rolling farmland, historic towns. There’s no shortage of visual material, and it would give me a great excuse to explore more of the state, camera in hand.
Plus, translating these scenes into ink—my medium of choice—would offer a distinct twist. They wouldn’t be typical travel art or postcard-style imagery. They’d be deeply observed, stripped down to light and shadow, made intimate by line work and texture. That, at least to me, sounds like something I’d genuinely love to do. And maybe others would love to have it on their walls.
Could this be the beginning of one of those rare win-win situations? One where I follow my artistic instincts and also create something people want to bring home?
It’s too early to say for sure. I’ve been known to follow a lightning-bolt idea all the way into the ground—running full speed ahead only to realize halfway through that I actually don’t enjoy the thing I was so convinced about. But this feels different. Quieter. Like something that’s been waiting for me to notice it.
Only time will tell, but for now, I’m paying attention.