I was standing behind my easel atop Rocky Mountain just a couple of weeks ago, when I heard my dad’s voice whisper in my ear, “What do you think of this, Cinc?”
(That’s what he used to call me.)
Chills washed over my body — the good kind.
After all, as I was holding my sweet father’s hand in the final moments before he passed, I voiced one request for him: “Please show me great painting spots.”
And here he was, doing just that.
It was one of our many afternoon escapades during PACE, the Plein Air Convention + Expo. After mornings filled with presentations and demos, we’d hop on a bus that transported us to a beautiful location, where we were free to roam and paint until we were picked up a few hours later.
From the moment I walked into the Westin Westminster upon my arrival at PACE, there was a magical energy in the air.
From beginner to professional, close to 1,000 artists were gathering in this one majestic place for a week devoted solely to plein air painting.
For most of my painting journey, I’ve treated it as a relatively solitary activity. And time in solitude is necessary… to explore and experiment with your style; to find your voice.
And. The more I grow as a painter, the more I realize that painting thrives in community.
Not just any community…
A community of people who know the struggles of self-doubt. A community of people who are willing to be vulnerable. A community of people who, no matter their skill level or years of experience, are perpetually yearning to become a better painter.
I tried very hard for many years to find belonging as a painter.
And I have, through my mentorship + painting voyages with Lori Putnam, through my local studio, Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery, and with certain friends I can call on to paint with whenever the urge strikes. (Which is nearly always.)
And now here I was, swept away in the midst of a community I felt an immediate belonging to, at PACE.
Every artist that gave a presentation or demo on stage didn’t hide their nervousness; didn’t try to mask their vulnerability.
They showed up as the humans they are…
And gave me permission to be the artist who makes mistakes; who still has doubts; who is perpetually yearning to be a better painter.
More importantly, they validated the dream of high school-aged Cindy, who’s vision board at the time was simple: Have a painting in The Met.
For decades, I’ve held that dream in my heart, surrounded by (very loud) inner arguments of, “Who do you think you are?” and “Who are you to reach for this?”
And as each day passed at PACE, those arguments got quieter and the doubts dissipated.
What didn’t dissipate… in fact, what’s grown even stronger since returning home from Denver, is that Rocky Mountain high.
The one pushing me to keep setting my sights on the sky. To keep reaching beyond. To keep intentionally building the community I’ve strived for for so long:
One of vulnerability; of acceptance; of humanity. Void of ego; of arrogance; of judgment. One that values sharing; that teaches; that inspires.
Coming through the speakers of the hotel lobby upon my arrival at PACE was Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver — the song I had played at my father’s funeral. Too coincidental to be coincidental.
By venturing to this place, by surrounding myself with these people, I’m coming home to myself. To my dreams.
And I will continue to carry that Rocky Mountain high with me as I keep reaching for the stars, lifting up the people around me as I go.