Paintings of Time, Place, and Space

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST

Charlotte A. Shroyer, Ph.D.

I AM an artist. Some who know me say I have always seen the world through artist eyes, but others perceive me to be a teacher and researcher. Even I did not always think of myself as an artist. Whimsical visions and celestial thoughts resided in my inner sanctuary, but for three decades of my adult life, I couldn’t even begin to ask myself the questions to access that deep well much less know that art was the passion of my soul.

Painting is my passion of mind and soul. Where it comes from, I know not. My painting process starts with just a few swipes of oil paint on the canvas and then the symphony begins--here and there another color, but not yet a hint of the final image. At last triggered by a subconscious thought or memory of an experience, place, or person, a few blurred images, usually figures, appear from the fringes. My brush has found the start of the path. Where it will go is still beyond my conscious comprehension, but I know intuitively that the finish line lies ahead.

My becoming an artist has been a small miracle. I call it a miracle because it was completely unexpected, one gentle nudge out of the blue followed by other subtle nudges through the years. It was almost as if a director were producing this play with me as the star. I didn’t realize the show had begun nor did I know that there was such a powerful creative energy residing within me. I should have realized it–after all, creative expression had been a part of my life from the time that I began to sew clothes for my dolls or write imaginary stories or essays about my feelings.

Creativity is a part of human genetics and shows itself at a very young age. Watch a child as he plays with wonder, passion, and intent. The winding and abundant paths developed in the child’s mind remain untraveled by most of us once we reach adulthood. If only I had realized my passion for art at that young age... How do some children in their early formative years find enduring passions that shape their entire lives? Have they partaken of some magical mind

expanding potion which reveals a mystical way to the soul? Or is it all a matter of play or just plain good luck? A friend knew at the age of 15 that she wanted to become a doctor–her teen experiences as a Candy Striper propelled her on a path from which she has never deviated. How lucky!

Art was not a part of my life as I grew up in a rural area outside Columbus, Ohio. Neither of my parents knew art, loved art, nor encouraged me in art. Art was a world outside their realm of reality–it was a place that only the elite visited. They searched and struggled to find survival and the ways to a better life, not for a muse or an artist whose work matched a wall or was collected for its beauty and value.

I went to elementary school in a 4-room, 8-grade country school where wooden desks were bolted to the floor in symmetrical parallel rows. There was little room for true creative expression–we were taught to be obedient and color within the lines on predesigned ditto sheets. There may have been some "cut and paste," but nothing messy like painting or working with clay. On two or three occasions at Vacation Bible School in Columbus, a 14-mile round trip by bicycle, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to finger paint. Once on an elementary school field trip, I visited the Columbus Museum of Art. I remember little of what I saw except the name of a famous Ohio painter, George Bellows. His name and the fact that someone from Columbus could become famous were the only two things to stay in my conscious mind over the

years. I was unaware that the seeds of an artist had been planted in my subconscious on that one trip– it would take years for them to germinate.

Thank goodness, the laziness of humid Midwestern summers and evenings with no television gave me time to explore, think, and create. My life was not programmed into little cubicles of parental preplanned activity designed to prepare me for even more constraining cubicles of adulthood. I laughed. I played. I ran my feet through the dirt of our vegetable garden. Taught by a family friend, I learned to sew so that I could design clothes for my doll and sew for myself. But I did not draw or paint.

Finally, at age 24, the painting seeds began to sprout. A BA with a major in French did not prepare me to make a living, but certification as a teacher would always guarantee me a job and so I proceeded to obtain elementary education certification. It was just a project requirement in an Ohio State art methods class that took me to the Columbus Park of Roses. There I sat on a warm summer day soaking up the colors and smells of hundreds of roses around me as I decided how to do something I had never done before–paint. There was only one way to do it: just start, put the first swish on the paper. I did, oblivious to the stares and curiosity of people watching my naivete at work.

Little did I realize that day would be the first step down a glorious path leading me to a new passion of my life: fine art. At 24 I was too young to realize the signs. I only knew that when I painted, I lost my inhibitions and soared to a new place with an exhilaration that seemed to know neither time nor reason, only satisfaction from deep within. If only I could have recognized and listened to the longings of my soul in those early adult years....

It wasn’t that I didn’t realize the excitement of creating, but I had other pressing priorities--a teaching job in California and a husband, both of which required attention if I were to succeed. I took several classes in community art centers in southern California after teaching all day. Instructors gave me positive feedback, but that was not enough to convince me to become an artist. It wasn’t until ten years later that I thought about going back to college to earn a BFA. The words and advice of my husband still ring in my ears: "You will never make money being an artist. Do it for fun. Get an advanced degree and teach at a university." Another detour along the path: a Ph.D. in education to train teachers of the learning disabled instead of the longed for BFA.

I roamed through eighteen more years following a path with an abundance of circuitous detours-teaching in a major state university; doing educational diagnostic work with multiply handicapped deaf infants, children, and youth; working in a multinational corporation; managing a San Francisco school-to-work nonprofit corporation for physically disabled teenagers and

youth; weaving and selling Navajo style pillows and rugs; weaving baskets for wholesale and retail sales; and a second divorce.

Finally one day my path led me to Taos, New Mexico–another serendipitous event. In that Southwestern art mecca I looked at, wrote and edited a small publication about art. Going into more than 40 galleries each month, looking at art, and talking about art finally encouraged me to put paint on the canvas once again. This time the paint stuck. The gentle nudges had suddenly become a momentous bolt from the blue. I was committed to being an artist.

I now paint and write in Taos, Florida, and the world. My journey has been a road less traveled with a map that continues to grow its own unlimited boundaries,. The final destination has not yet appeared on the map, but I can truly say "I AM an artist!"

Comments

[Charlotte E. Thompson, M.D.]

Charlotte Shroyer is not only a fine artist, but a wonderful writer as well. Her long journey to become an artist should be an inspiration to men and women who feel trapped in mindless, uninteresting jobs. Finding joy in what we do is so very important.