In most community art classes, one can expect a fairly broad age range among the attendees. Last Sunday, in my day-long oil painting workshop with Ursula Stocke at the excellent Schack Art Center in Everett, my classmates ranged in age from about 18 to 70. My table mate and I didn't chat much, as we were busy trying to make it over our respective painting hurdles. But during the lunch break, we had a brief conversation.
I learned that she was a recently retired medical doctor. In college, she wanted to study art. But she needed to think about being able to earn a living, so she decided to become a doctor. As she approached retirement age and the end of practicing medicine, she correctly anticipated the need to care for her father. She cut down her practice so she and her husband could spend an intensive 18 months caring for him until his recent death. During this period, she and her husband left town only one time. Now fully retired, after nearly 40 years of life dedicated to practicing medicine and caring for others, she is now turning to her first, original love: art.
As our classmates gradually returned to the classroom, my table mate said one last thing: "In caring for my father, I saw my own mortality." She said this not with a smile, but with a sober, knowing look into my eyes as she put her last bite of lunch into her mouth. I knew what she was saying: that this painting class was not just a painting class, but part of a renewed beginning for her. At long last, she has freely chosen to do artwork as a way of relating to and enjoying life.
Our mortality. In the flurry and speed of contemporary life, let us not lose sight of it. It's not too late to take that class, visit that city, pursue what your most elemental self has cried out for but has not yet been given, for whatever reason. This is not selfish. It is for the overall good, and it's important.
Jocelyn Curry 
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