When I first got back into making fine art photographs after a nearly fifteen-year break (I opened and ran a photography gallery and had a baby during that time), I took workshops from some of my favorite photographers. Keith Carter, Mary Ellen Mark and Andrea Modica stood out as the teachers who challenged, encouraged and inspired me the most.  In search of my own voice, I certainly tried on their styles, but each of these generous humans imparted a series of good ideas as to how I might find it. I took a lighting workshop and a Photoshop class to help me hone my technical skills. Finally, I traveled to Uganda for a three-week workshop to learn how to be a photographer for NGOs. (Those of you who know my history will recall that this led to starting my own non-profit in Uganda and running it for 13 years.)

My foray into painting has led to more learning. Early on I took two classes from Phil Sylvester, a beloved drawing/painting instructor who has his own workshop studio in Portland. During the pandemic, I signed up for a couple online classes, including one on Procreate (more technical stuff). The drawings I made were naïve in nature, kind of folk-arty. I loved making them; they were even the impetus for starting my coaster business (Gloasters). Not having any formal training in drawing or painting, I struggled trying to make representational work. I dug in deep but usually got frustrated and would return to making photographs only. Each time I sat before a piece of paper or a canvas I expected a masterpiece to emerge. In my head I knew I was setting myself up for failure, but if you know me, you know that I tend to be outcome-oriented, impatient, competitive and just a tad perfectionistic (!).

Finally last fall I decided to give abstract painting a try. Keith Carter had challenged me in both photo classes I took from him: don’t SHOW me what’s going on, make me WONDER what’s going on. I decided to try applying that mantra to my practice with acrylics. This led to my discovery of intuitive painting.

After Eddie died, I found myself painting on a regular basis. I spent a lot of time in my studio moving paint around, grateful for the time to process the significant changes in my life. I figured out pretty quickly that abstract painting was a cathartic way to explore my emotions. The more I painted the more I started to see those emotions splattered across the canvas and the more I started to understand that the process was actually more important than the result. I began to open up, take some chances, be more honest with myself, be braver… and gradually the grip of my high expectations started to loosen somewhat.

I go to my studio now more than ever. To build up my technical skills I’ve taken a one-day workshop with Julie Schumer in Santa Fe, as well as a workshop at PaintSpace in New Orleans. This week finds me at Anderson Ranch just outside Aspen. I'm attending a workshop called “Paint and Photography: The Perfect Marriage.” It’s taught by Holly Roberts, whose work I love. I showed some of her images in a group exhibition at the Baker Gallery back in the 1980’s and have followed her ever since. I’m really looking forward to learning from her.

In the meantime, I’ve been participating in Louise Fletcher’s free 10-day online course called “The Creative Reset.” It’s a thought-provoking class that encourages all 4,000 of us students (!) to look inward as we explore the possibilities of abstract expressionism. The exercises are not ones you might expect. For example, today’s assignment was to make three ugly paintings. Louise shares quite a bit from her heart and encourages us to take a deep look at things like our vulnerabilities, our fears, our insecurities, our hopes, etc. This approach suits me just fine.

There are lots of older women in Louise's class, and most of the coaches are older too. As a 71-year-old heading in a new direction, I find it all very inspiring.

I'd like to share something she passed along to us in her newsletter:

"I’ve been thinking a lot about the way we talk about age — and more specifically, the way we use it as an excuse.

Have you ever had the thought: 'I’m too old to start that now' or 'That’s for younger people?' 

We say it about all kinds of things - about love, about travel, about technology, and about trying something completely new. And sometimes, we don’t even say it out loud — it just sits there in the back of our minds, quietly making decisions for us.

I've certainly heard it many times from older artists, who categorically declare that it's far too late to take painting seriously.

But then I read an article about a woman who became a dancer at 68 years old.

Now at 82, she is putting on her first solo show at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. If you don’t know, the Fringe is not some gentle afternoon tea party. It’s a wild, exhausting, exhilarating whirlwind of performances, pop-up venues, self-promotion, and pure creative chaos. Artists do everything themselves - they design thwir own shows, find a venue, organise promotion and then put on the performances.

The festival takes stamina, creativity, and persistence and it's widely thought of as something younger artists do. And here is Christine, doing it in her eighties.

In the article she is quoted as saying that she is doing 'all the things I shouldn't be doing.'

It made me wonder — how many of us are letting 'too old' quietly take our place in the driver’s seat?

I think the deeper issue isn’t age at all. It’s that we forget life is still happening — right now — and we stop letting ourselves be shaped and fed by it. We forget that our inner life still has places to grow. That we still have more firsts ahead of us, if only we’ll let them happen.

When we lose touch with that, our creativity starts to wither a little. Not because we can’t make art anymore, but because we stop noticing. We stop letting the world in. And art — whether you paint it, dance it, write it, or live it — only thrives when you’re letting life in.

It’s easy to look at other artists and decide that, because they started young, there's no chance for you. But just think how much you deny yourself when you do that? 

It's easy to decide that the time to begin was years ago, and so now it’s too late. But here’s the truth: the only wrong time to start is never. You can write your first song at 40. Learn to paint at 57. Get on a stage for the first time at 82. And if anyone asks, you can just smile and tell them, 'I was busy before, but I’m here now.'

Because the real limitation is never age. It’s whether you believe you’re allowed to begin.

So here's the question I have for you this week ... are you letting limiting ideas stop you from doing something?

Don't limit yourself to age when you answer this question because you may have a different excuse. And that's what this is - it's an excuse. 

'I'm too old to learn new technology' gives you an excuse not to struggle with learning something new, the way the rest of us do. 

'I'm too old to travel' gives you an excuse to avoid the discomfort we all experience when we go somewhere new.

And 'I'm too old to take painting seriously' gives you an excuse not to work hard at learning.

Excuses are fine if you want to limit yourself, but I suspect if you're reading this, you want more. Christine didn't give herself any excuses - she got to work learning to dance and now, maybe even as I write this, she is dancing her first ever solo show at the age of 82."

- Louise Fletcher