In my last year of college, I signed up for an oil painting class for fun. Clutching the list of required supplies, I wandered wide-eyed through an art supply store near campus; never stopping to ask for guidance, I spent a small fortune on high-end brushes, paints, canvases, palette knives, and more. On the way home, weighed down by two large shopping bags, I imagined that people walking past would think, “She must be a serious artist!”
I eagerly anticipated the first day of class, harboring a secret fantasy that I would be discovered as the next Frida Kahlo. For our first assignment, the professor invited us to pick one of the easels circling an enormous jumble of office furniture and random items in the center of the studio. He instructed us to select one paint color, create shades of it by adding black or white, and paint what we saw. Intimidated by the pristine blank canvas, I held my brush in mid-air, afraid to make a “wrong” first stroke. Eventually I took a deep breath and began painting.
After some time, the professor made his rounds, offering each student encouragement. I overheard him tell others, "Your shading here is great," or "If you hold the brush like this, you can get the same effect on the other side." My heart sped up the closer he approached—here was the moment my natural talent would be discovered! The professor stood behind me for the longest time, and I grew increasingly self-conscious as he silently watched me paint. Finally, he drew closer to ask, “What are you looking at?” I gestured nervously around the canvas, sputtering, “See, this is the filing cabinet, here’s the tube draped over it, and then this is part of the fake plant.” He sighed, “Oh, okay. I see what you’re doing now.” And then he walked away. No compliment or encouragement for me—not only was I not the next Frida Kahlo, but I was not even her neighbor’s cousin twice removed, in terms of talent.
This memory came back to me last month when I took a break during a busy day to stop by a craft session organized by Dr. Kim Miranda, Assistant Professor of Chicana/o Studies. She and several grad students had set out collaging supplies on the department conference table; there was music, snacks, and easy conversation. I began cutting flowers and words out of magazines, but when it came time to arrange them, I suddenly felt my art professor standing behind me, bewildered by my vision—not to mention the familiar fear of a blank page and “messing up” the collage I had in mind. Nevertheless, I forged ahead with my glue stick, adjusting the arrangement as needed. And in the end, not only was I pleased with the end result that was uniquely mine, but I also felt great to have stepped away from my computer and taken the time to physically create something.
Summer, with its slower rhythm and longer days, offers a kind of blank canvas—an open space waiting for whatever you choose to place upon it. What if, this season, you gave yourself permission to create without purpose or pressure? What might emerge if you allow yourself to let go of unrealistic expectations and express yourself freely in a new way? How might it feel to release self-consciousness and engage in creativity just for you? Just like a collage made from scraps or a brushstroke making its mark, the act of beginning is often more important than what it becomes.
Whether it’s returning to an abandoned hobby, trying out a new medium, or simply playing with an idea that has been quietly calling to you, summer is yours to shape. No grades, no critiques—just you, your time, and the possibility of joy in the making. Whatever it is, may it bring you a sense of renewal, delight, and the quiet satisfaction of making space for yourself.
Sincerely,
Magdalena L. Barrera
Vice Provost for Faculty Success
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