The theme of this month’s Creative Mornings talk is “spicy.” When Danny (the host) first asked me to speak today I wasn’t sure how I could tie in the theme with my practice. I think those closest to me would use that term to describe my personality, but I didn’t know how I could apply that to my art.  So I started thinking about what the word “spicy” really means. Flavor component aside, there’s also the more poetic use of the term, as in “to spice things up,” Making them fun, interesting, zesty. Now that’s something I know a lot about. Then I started reflecting on the sensory experience of consuming something spicy, which, as someone who’s accidentally eaten an entire Thai Chile to the point of tears, I know spice can be difficult to endure and wildly uncomfortable. But once the pain has subsided, it can produce a feeling of accomplishment and even gratification.  I survived the spice! So once I started thinking of the word spicy through that lens, and took some creative license as an artist does, I arrived at a another food related metaphor, more rich with meaning for me personally and I named this talk: 

“Peaches and pits, how I got to be a working artist and keep it interesting (or spicy) along the way.”

The peach isn't just an exceptional muse (will show a couple of slides of peaches made by me), it's also my metaphor of choice when reflecting on my art practice and career. The outside of the peach entices with its bright hue and luscious skin, it’s a sweet attractive thing you want to eat, the epitome of peak summer. Then there’s the pit. The gnarly hard inside, so often discarded. But the pit is actually all potential, a future of more peach, the core. With a peach, the less seductive inner part carries with it renewal and potential. The dichotomy of juicy fruit and stony essential seed is relevant to my story, which isn’t one of overnight success, a big break, or a string of viral moments that made me millions. It’s the story of someone who gradually grew a pretty sustainable career as a working artist over time, by leading with delight. It was delight in cooking after all that led me to my neighborhood farmers’ market where I was looking for ingredients, and ended up finding my muse, the subjects for the project that unexpectedly launched my career as an artist. The inspiration I found at the market sparked a tiny idea I had to make a calendar of seasonal produce that turned into a big one, in that I’ve now been making it for almost fifteen years. This calendar isn’t just a date-keeper or a collection of pretty paintings, for me it’s a project that shaped my role as an artist, taught me how to make art as accessible and digestible as fruit and has led me back to the core of what matters to me as a person and an artist.

If you would have asked me fifteen years ago if I thought a calendar would be the thing I was most known for as an artist, I would have likely said no. At that time, I was a recent college graduate with an art degree who was thrust into adulthood during a recession, need I say more? The artwork I’d been making up to this point, at university and a few years beyond, was what you might call “fine art,” that’s what an arts education in painting gears you towards. Not exactly how to make a living at doing said art. (Show some slides). The human figure was my subject of choice, oils were my medium. I experimented, abstracting the figures and turning them into explorations of color and shapes. In my studio classes, I was never one to be highly technical or classical in my approach. The people around me holding up their pencils to make sure the proportions of the human figure were correct during figure drawing had me rolling my eyes, as I was more intent on developing my own signature style than making something hyper realistic even if the figure had a weird overly long arm. I was earning recognition for my portfolio which made me think my work held promise. I loved the process, loved painting, but somehow knew deep in my core, that my personality and the work I wanted to make wasn’t bound for the world of galleries or museums, a world that to me took itself too seriously, something I never wanted to do. So I instead took a gig doing art projects with little kids, while the problem of how to remain an artist when you grow up went on the back burner.

I put cooking delicious meals for myself on the front burner. Thanks to my Italian-American upbringing, good food was a family value and I wanted to carry on the tradition. I dabbled in recipes from Moosewood to Chez Panisse, devoured Alice Waters' biography, and immersed myself in Bay Area foodie classics like Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma and Full Moon Feast by Jessica Prentice. It just made sense to me, I wanted to live and eat with the seasons! Which led me to my neighborhood farmers market where I made my weekly pilgrimage. I'd stroll through, eyes wide with anticipation, wondering when the barren winter stalls would give way to a cornucopia of tomatoes, berries, and zucchini. And let me tell you, when that bounty finally arrived, I was like a kid on Christmas morning. I took that childlike enthusiasm and the gouache watercolors I had started playing with in my spare time and I concocted a humble one-page market calendar, which eventually blossomed into a full-blown produce masterpiece of 13 pages– cover and all. I wanted to spread the gospel of eating locally grown food! I started out small, making copies for friends and coworkers in exchange for about as much money as it cost to print them, maybe less. Then, in a stroke of entrepreneurial genius (or naivete,  you be the judge), I set up a lemonade style stand in the park across the street from my Oakland farmers' market, armed with nothing but my makeshift calendar display of newly named “Eat Local Calendars” and a stack of hastily hand drawn business cards I’d work on while waiting for customers.  I don’t think I sold many, if any at all, but lo and behold, out of nowhere emerged a guardian angel in the form of a Bi-Rite Market employee, Rachel Cole, who took one look at my wares and declared she needed it. If you’re not familiar with it, Bi-Rite Market is the holy grail of small markets with a strong ethos… Before I knew it, my Eat Local Calendars hit the shelves of my first wholesale account and I had my first taste of what it meant to sell my work to the public, it tasted sweet. 

The sweetness of that small success emboldened me to keep planting that seed, taking on fruits and vegetables as my newfound subject of choice, and hitting the pavement with my calendars with a blind optimism and boldness only a bright eyed and bushy-tailed young person can possess. My audacity was often rewarded and I had decent luck getting my work into the thoughtfully curated shops I approached.  Sure, a few times the rejection from some spoiled my day, but I didn't let it stop me. I had conviction. I had found the place where I felt my work belonged: the marketplace and that I had found my niche: making art out of something I literally consume everyday and putting it in a format that was pretty accessible too.  In the process I realized how much I wanted to make work that average folks have the ability to access and could enjoy in their everyday life. And at its core, it represents something fundamental about the way I like to live: in an environmentally conscious way. With the calendar,  I hope to inspire and teach others to do what is better for the environment and the community and eat locally grown, in season food, a small act with a big impact. Food is political and we vote with our dollar when making choices about who and what we’re supporting. So I would treat the fruits, vegetables and plant life I’m painting with the same attention & care I did the people in the portraits I used to paint and try to give them character. The way the light would hit a shiny apple was just as important as the light that hit a live model’s eye, giving it dimension and life. I brought my “signature Maria style” to my new subjects and the bright colors and playful composition caught onlooker’s eyes in the shops that took a chance on carrying my stuff.  I think that’s what initially charmed my clientele— the playful & unique way I approached both my business and my subjects. The conviction behind the work motivated me to learn some business principles to make it a viable product. I was selling my art for money in a way that felt authentic to me which made me think I could make a full blown livelihood out of it.
When you put that kind of pressure on your creative practice a couple of things happen. It can be motivating: I’ve resolved to make money through this means and I will stop at nothing to do so, which can invite a lot of creativity, or resourcefulness. Alternatively it can also rob the work of some of its magic. I’ve experienced both of those. I revisit the same project year after year, as my calendar remains my best selling product, my bread and butter still.  There’s been more than a few years where I dreaded making it and wished I didn’t feel like I had to. As a wise friend once said: “ if you can’t get out of it, get into it.” In the early days, I would paint my subjects from photographs and not surprisingly to me now, the process grew stale. I was uninspired and bored. I needed to bring the spice back into it. I realized: I always leave the market energized by conversations with the farmer, or a chef I know, inspired by the colors and textures I see there such as beautiful displays of citrus and pomegranates- why don’t I bring a little bit of market magic back to my studio? I’ve found salvation in a pink radicchio that got me excited to paint again. Painting from live subjects reinvigorated the process and invited a new challenge I so desperately needed to stay engaged: to paint a head of little gem lettuce before it wilted and shriveled. Or an apple before it browns. Aha! I’d found the juice once again. I head to the market and bring back to my studio an array of in season produce items to paint and arrange them in an interesting way. It’s the same sort of challenge a chef might feel when all the market has to offer is: greens and mushrooms. Make them look enticing and bring out the flavors. I sort of do the same thing. I get lost in the folds of a chanterelle mushroom I’ve foraged and find patterns and different shades of yellow-orange that delight my senses. And it’s still challenging. A cabbage has taught me that good things take time. A strawberry has infuriated me with its insistence to take more note of light and shadow. If I’m still challenging myself and can look back on work from years past and see growth, which I do, we’re not done here. 

The aforementioned pressure of being a full-time creative has pushed me to grow in new directions and still does. I’ve diversified my portfolio, it’s not all fruits & vegetables after all. I’ve made an array of other stationery items to offer alongside the calendar, and then realized I didn’t need to follow some formula of constantly making new products all of the time, that didn’t feel right or sustainable. So I’ve pulled back on that unless I’m genuinely inspired to make something. I’ve taken on client work and entertained so many different kinds of projects. In the beginning, I didn’t have the luxury of discernment and I said yes to just about everything no matter how lame or underpaid, sometimes not even paid at all just to get my name out there. The projects have ranged from low paid illustrations for food centric magazines, to low paid wedding invitations, which taught me the value of a good contract and how to know when it’s time to move on from a certain type of work, to custom artwork for other small businesses which remains a peach, to a commercial animation for a not so on brand shampoo company (pit) where I had the MOST FUN collaborating with an animator/photographer team and learned some stop-animation skills (peach), to more recently a line of designs for Sur La Table for a tabletop collection which I’m proud of but also taught me corporate clients don’t always value the artist (pit). Some of the work has been interesting and engaging, some not so much. And when the commission work dries up or I long for something else, it’s time to self-start and often the inspiration is right in front of me and part of my daily life, the little things sparking joy & excitement. For instance, during a time I was regularly driving North on highway one from SF to Marin County, my obsession with wildflowers inspired a sticker I really just wanted on my own car because I found myself distracted by the wildflowers along the road and in time, sold thousands of them to other like-minded people. More recently, I made an illustrated guide to some of my favorite local businesses here on the peninsula because I care so much about our local economy, my community and sharing what’s special & unique here. When I get stuck, I look for new crumbs in the world around me, follow them and make art out of it. It’s pretty simple. I go on a daily walk and notice every plant and flower along the way. So I made a series of drawings of those plants into a coloring book which is now one of my top selling items. It’s funny to me that some people start a business thinking of something that might sell well, a hole in the market. I started my business the other way around. I made a thing out of genuine enthusiasm about something I was passionate about and that seems to be a thing that brings a little bit of joy to others to others that care about that same thing. 

So the question has gone from “how do I support myself as an artist” to “how do I build a life around the work that sustains & fulfills me not only as an artist but as a person?” That’s the life giving core of the peach after all. I’ve had to find strategies to satisfy other cravings I have. One being that art making is a solitary act and I’m an extrovert, so I’ve had to get creative and find ways to connect with others through my work.. At one particularly lonely moment that made the work nearly unbearable, I started a communal co-working studio that hosted a revolving door of 7 other artists for 5+ years (I can’t really overstate the importance of a creative community but that’s another talk). Found mentors. Initiated collaborations. Done art shows that scratched other itches I had for art-making. Solo ones, group ones. Hosted workshops. Thrown networking events, markets. Took advantage of being at events with other artists and introduced myself, and have built a sturdy network of support around me and my work. And then there were other pits. Realizing how inefficient some of my ways of working were and how little money I was working for, I’ve had to evolve. I learned to work digitally. Finally built up the confidence to say no to work that didn’t interest me and develop trust that work that did would come. I still arrive at stuck points. If you're a creative person of any kind, I don’t have to tell you that self doubt is part of it. The inner critic bears its ugly head when you’re close to finishing something. Or even worse a whole shitty committee comes to stay for a season and hey there’s another opportunity to make friends.  “This work isn’t good. What are you even doing? You could be doing more interesting kinds of projects than this, making more money, look at what that person is doing.” I’ll tell you, there’s probably innumerable people doing something similar to what you’re trying to do and maybe even better but you have to keep your eye on that juicy peach and just keep going. When I get into those modes of thinking, I probably just need a long hike or to cook a good meal. Or to call one of my trusty fellow artist friends.  

 The journey has been rich and textured. As an artist and as a small business, I’ve had to learn some things the hard way, my own way, without a guide book. Many highs and lows. Moments when I feel like it’s too good to be true that I get to do this. Days and weeks where art making isn’t even part of it and sometimes that’s a good thing. You can’t be creative all the time, even though doing this work sometimes asks that of you. I’ve met some of the most important people in my life through it. Periods of questioning, feeling lost and aimless, not knowing what’s next. Health issues. Crickets that lasted for months. Years of growth and opportunity, followed by years of decline where I feared it was all shriveling up. Only the next year to have it come back stronger. And I’ve been willing to keep showing up through all of it which has taught me a lot about myself. You’d never know from looking at it how many hours I’ve been tortured by a broccolini I was painting or failures along the way went into making the work, because on the outside it just may look like pure fun. And I’m glad the work gives that impression, because to me that means I’ve done something right. I want to bring my own flavor, intention, and joy to my subjects and all the things I create no matter what it is. I feel that’s my offering as an artist. People sometimes say: “Wow that’s so cool, you’re an artist for a living.” and I say: “Yeah, sometimes.” That said, let’s be real: it must have been engaging and fulfilling enough to have kept me in the game for over 15 years. I don’t do very well with things that aren’t the right balance of sweet like a peach, hard like a pit and a little bit spicy. So there you have it. Who knows where the journey will take me next, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to enjoy its juicy flesh and revel in considering the ever-crucial pit. 

P.S. You can also file the experience of writing and giving this talk under spicy— an uncomfortable challenge I was willing to endure.