Ah, my first art show. It was supposed to be a proud moment—my handmade paintings displayed on my equally handmade display panels. Everything looked perfect in my head, right up until the moment a strong gust of wind sent those panels flying, along with my hopes of looking like a professional artist.
There I was, crouched on the ground, frantically gathering my paintings like they were runaway puppies. One panel hit the dirt and cracked in half, while another toppled right into a bush. My whole display plan? Out the window. I had no choice but to lay my paintings on the ground. That’s right—my debut art show turned into what looked like a sidewalk sale, but with more panic in the artist's eyes.
I was mortified. So mortified, in fact, that I hid in the back behind my booth, letting my sister take the lead in greeting customers while I tried to glue my ego back together. I peeked out now and then, but I wasn’t about to step forward and engage with anyone. Not after that fiasco.
And then, she showed up. You know the type—a mom with her 5-year-old son in tow, swaggering up to the booth like she’s been an art critic her whole life. I watched from my hiding spot, holding my breath, as she surveyed the paintings that now had the honor of resting on the grass.
Her son, meanwhile, was busy chasing a bug and smearing dirt on his face. Lovely.
She stops at one of my favorite pieces—one that I’d poured hours into—and squints at it. I could feel it coming, that dreaded question all artists fear. And sure enough, here it came:
The Mom: “Hmm, you know, my son could probably do this.”
I glanced over at the kid, who was now attempting to eat said bug, and all I could think was, “Really? Can he paint with dirt on his face and a caterpillar in his mouth?”
But instead, I watched helplessly from the beyond, too embarrassed by the state of my display to defend my work. My sister, bless her, took a deep breath and smiled at the woman. “Well, your son must be incredibly talented,” she said with all the grace of someone who hadn’t just witnessed our display’s utter destruction.
The mom then turned to her kid and said, “See, sweetie? You could make this. Maybe we’ll try it when we get home.”
The kid? He gave no response because he was too busy trying to shove his finger up his nose.
At this point, I thought it couldn’t get worse. Here I was, cowering, feeling like I should just pack it all up and go home. I figured no one would take my work seriously after that little exchange.
But then something miraculous happened.
A couple strolled into the booth, totally bypassing the mom and her future artist in the making. They crouched down to look at my paintings—yes, the ones on the ground—and started complimenting the colors and the emotion in each piece. The woman picked up one of my favorites and said, “This is absolutely stunning. How much is it?”
Me (internally): “Wait, what? You don’t care that it’s sitting on the ground like a picnic blanket?”
My sister, ever the superhero, called me over. She waved me forward like, “See? It’s safe to come over.” I hesitated but finally stepped up and answered their questions, trying to suppress my embarrassment. And guess what? They bought two paintings right there, dirt and all.
My confidence was restored in that moment. I could’ve hugged them. They didn’t care about my busted panels or my “floor show”—they appreciated the art. And suddenly, I realized, maybe I shouldn’t care so much about what My Kid Could Do That Lady thought either.
Sure, her son might be able to finger paint a squiggle, but I had something real here—and people could see it. After that, I came back out from my hiding spot and greeted customers with my head held high.
And as for the mom and her aspiring young Jackson Pollock? They moved on to the next booth, hopefully to buy finger paints—and a bug net.
Sometimes, it takes a bit of chaos and a surprise positive reaction to remind you of your own worth as an artist.