Dear Pamela,
You were the first person to treat me like an adult. My mom always treated me as though I was mature for my age, but as the mother of a 13 year old she couldn't exactly act like I was an adult. You, though.....shortly after meeting me you told me that 13 year-olds in other countries were independent with jobs and their own homes and immense responsibilities, and that was how you expected me to act-I loved that. It showed true faith in me, true belief that I was going to be great. When I put my work in your gallery, I was both in a state of absolute shock and a deep acceptance that no one would by my art. When someone did, I started to think maybe it had all been some kind of dream.
I don't want to talk to you about My work, or how you helped it get into the world, or even the money I made thanks to you. I want to talk about what you did for me as a person. You took a scared 13 year old with no confidence and ideas that didn't quite work with those of other people and none of the talents that make you popular and you changed her. I didn't value myself very much, I spent my days bashing on myself and thinking there was no way I could ever achieve my dreams. One in a million are successful artists or writers, and I undeniably knew that I wasn't one of them. My english teachers told me I had talent, and so did my art teacher, but talent doesn't make you famous. Talent doesn't get your books published or art sold and it certainly doesn't make you think of yourself in a brighter light.
That takes something else.
If we are lucky enough in life, we will stumble across someone amazing. Some one who, upon meeting you, instantly believes in you as much as your family does. That was who you were. You showed me that I had a chance. I still remember talking to you, and you were telling me that you can make it as an artist in this crazy world, but you have to be prepared to be chewed up and spit back out. You have to earn it. If that means boring commissioned work that pays bills or eating ramen or anything else, that was just how it was. And, you told me, if I had it in me to push through that, I would rise to the top. This is something I still struggle with today, but I am still writing, still doing art, and hunting for a college that supports both. I am chasing my dreams, which had always seemed too far out of reach to even hope for.
One day, when we were eating dinner, there was a call. I saw your name on the caller ID as my mom answered it. I really couldn't make out what was going on, just that it was bad. I was scared. I didn't get a chance to talk to you because you were in a hurry, and only on the phone long enough to explain to my mom and insist it would work out. I knew it wouldn't. To this day, I do not know you raised the lease on your shop or why. You took such a small amount from artists profits, not enough to live well by, because it was what you loved. I always wondered who would use that to get you out, how they justified putting twenty-something local artists who were actually living by profits out of work, and if they really thought it through. Maybe, I thought, they just didn't care. You told my mom that you were hunting for a new building, and would call when you found one. You never did.
I sat around waiting and waiting and wondering why you weren't calling. If you'd decided not to have me in the new shop or not to open shop at all or if you were still looking or if you'd taken a job you hated that didn't lats you stick random decorations in your hair. My grandma was the one who picked my work up, and my mom and stepdad would later bump into you in town, but I never would. No, I never saw you again, never talked to you again. My work is still sitting in my closet and I still don't know if you're okay, if you think I'd be upset if you called and told me you'd close shop, when really I would have been delighted to talk to you. If I am in downtown Portland, and I drive through the ABC district, I close my eyes. When someone tries to tell me about the new display in YOUR shop window put there by whoever thought they could replace such a unique, spectacular person, I tune them out. I try not to think about it. If I see it or hear about it or let it cross my mind for more than a second, I fear I will cry. I spend way too much of my time crying these days, and it seems silly I might do it over something so long passed. But, I know there's a chance.
I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how far I've come, how much better I've gotten, because I think you'd be proud. I would like you to know I am now into costume designing, because I am fairly certain you'd think that was great. I want you to know that I might not be chasing my dreams today if it weren't for you, and that I will forever owe you for that. I want to know that you're okay. If you ever come across this letter, I hope you might give me a call. My number hasn't changed. My life, well that's changed alot, but not so much that I have lost anything you did for me.
-Shelby
You were the first person to treat me like an adult. My mom always treated me as though I was mature for my age, but as the mother of a 13 year old she couldn't exactly act like I was an adult. You, though.....shortly after meeting me you told me that 13 year-olds in other countries were independent with jobs and their own homes and immense responsibilities, and that was how you expected me to act-I loved that. It showed true faith in me, true belief that I was going to be great. When I put my work in your gallery, I was both in a state of absolute shock and a deep acceptance that no one would by my art. When someone did, I started to think maybe it had all been some kind of dream.
I don't want to talk to you about My work, or how you helped it get into the world, or even the money I made thanks to you. I want to talk about what you did for me as a person. You took a scared 13 year old with no confidence and ideas that didn't quite work with those of other people and none of the talents that make you popular and you changed her. I didn't value myself very much, I spent my days bashing on myself and thinking there was no way I could ever achieve my dreams. One in a million are successful artists or writers, and I undeniably knew that I wasn't one of them. My english teachers told me I had talent, and so did my art teacher, but talent doesn't make you famous. Talent doesn't get your books published or art sold and it certainly doesn't make you think of yourself in a brighter light.
That takes something else.
If we are lucky enough in life, we will stumble across someone amazing. Some one who, upon meeting you, instantly believes in you as much as your family does. That was who you were. You showed me that I had a chance. I still remember talking to you, and you were telling me that you can make it as an artist in this crazy world, but you have to be prepared to be chewed up and spit back out. You have to earn it. If that means boring commissioned work that pays bills or eating ramen or anything else, that was just how it was. And, you told me, if I had it in me to push through that, I would rise to the top. This is something I still struggle with today, but I am still writing, still doing art, and hunting for a college that supports both. I am chasing my dreams, which had always seemed too far out of reach to even hope for.
One day, when we were eating dinner, there was a call. I saw your name on the caller ID as my mom answered it. I really couldn't make out what was going on, just that it was bad. I was scared. I didn't get a chance to talk to you because you were in a hurry, and only on the phone long enough to explain to my mom and insist it would work out. I knew it wouldn't. To this day, I do not know you raised the lease on your shop or why. You took such a small amount from artists profits, not enough to live well by, because it was what you loved. I always wondered who would use that to get you out, how they justified putting twenty-something local artists who were actually living by profits out of work, and if they really thought it through. Maybe, I thought, they just didn't care. You told my mom that you were hunting for a new building, and would call when you found one. You never did.
I sat around waiting and waiting and wondering why you weren't calling. If you'd decided not to have me in the new shop or not to open shop at all or if you were still looking or if you'd taken a job you hated that didn't lats you stick random decorations in your hair. My grandma was the one who picked my work up, and my mom and stepdad would later bump into you in town, but I never would. No, I never saw you again, never talked to you again. My work is still sitting in my closet and I still don't know if you're okay, if you think I'd be upset if you called and told me you'd close shop, when really I would have been delighted to talk to you. If I am in downtown Portland, and I drive through the ABC district, I close my eyes. When someone tries to tell me about the new display in YOUR shop window put there by whoever thought they could replace such a unique, spectacular person, I tune them out. I try not to think about it. If I see it or hear about it or let it cross my mind for more than a second, I fear I will cry. I spend way too much of my time crying these days, and it seems silly I might do it over something so long passed. But, I know there's a chance.
I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how far I've come, how much better I've gotten, because I think you'd be proud. I would like you to know I am now into costume designing, because I am fairly certain you'd think that was great. I want you to know that I might not be chasing my dreams today if it weren't for you, and that I will forever owe you for that. I want to know that you're okay. If you ever come across this letter, I hope you might give me a call. My number hasn't changed. My life, well that's changed alot, but not so much that I have lost anything you did for me.
-Shelby