A Different World

The date on my phone confirmed that the introductory session was finally here. Now I was going to meet people who knew more about art than I did, and I wasn’t sure what they would think of someone who had taught herself.

I chose a simple blouse and dark trousers. My sketchbook went into the portfolio folder with three drawings I had selected. After checking that the pages were protected, I picked up my phone and house key and left.

The creative centre stood along a busy street. Inside, the reception area opened onto a bright common area, where framed paintings hung along the walls. Several people were already gathered near a table covered with leaflets.

Some spoke comfortably about exhibitions and classes they had attended. A man was explaining something about his portfolio, while two women compared photographs on a phone. For a moment, I wondered whether I had misunderstood the kind of people the programme wanted.

Then I remembered the drawings in my folder and the evenings I had spent trying to improve them. I hadn’t come because I was certain I would be accepted. I had come to understand what I needed to do next. I checked in and followed the receptionist’s directions to the meeting room.

Most of the seats were empty. I chose one near the middle and placed my folder beside my chair. As I looked over the information sheet, a young woman approached with a canvas tote bag.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

“No,” I said, moving my folder.

“Thanks. I’m Tessa, by the way.”

“Sophie.”

“First time attending one of these?”

I nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only because I’m asking myself the same question.” She smiled. “I’ve been to a few workshops, but I’m hoping to learn how to put a proper portfolio together.”

“I’m still trying to work out what should go into mine.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Mostly drawings. I’m self-taught, so I’m still learning.”

Tessa didn’t seem surprised. “I learned from videos and books before I took a weekend class. I still make a mess of proportions.”

I smiled. “I thought classes would make that easier.”

“They help, but there’s always something else to learn.” Tessa told me she liked drawing people doing ordinary things. I said I enjoyed drawing people too, although I often started with things I noticed around me.

Tessa spoke about her work without making it sound more impressive than it was. She told me she sometimes sketched on the bus, though most of those pages never became finished drawings. I understood that. My own sketchbook held unfinished ideas I had been too embarrassed to show anyone.

She glanced at my folder. “Did you bring anything?”

“A few pieces. I’m not sure they’re good enough to show.”

“You don’t have to show me,” she said. “But I’d like to see them if you want to.”

Before I could answer, a woman at the front welcomed everyone and introduced herself as the programme coordinator.

The coordinator explained that the initiative was designed to help emerging artists develop their skills and learn how to present their work. Those selected to move forward would receive guidance and feedback as they prepared for the next stage, which could include an exhibition connected to the programme. Applicants would need to submit a small selection of original work and a short statement about their artistic interests. The organisers would review the submissions and contact those selected for the next stage.

The coordinator added that the guidance would help applicants recognise where their work needed improvement and prepare it for presentation. I underlined that point. I knew I needed help with proportions and shading, and it was reassuring to hear that the programme made room for artists who were still learning.

I listened carefully, making a few notes. The process sounded manageable, but I still wondered whether my lack of formal training would count against me.

When the coordinator invited questions, several people raised their hands. I waited, turning my pen between my fingers. When the room grew quieter, I nearly decided to keep my question to myself.

Then I raised my hand.

“I haven’t studied art formally,” I said. “I’ve taught myself, and most of what I know has come from practising on my own. Can someone without formal training still apply?”

“Yes,” the coordinator replied. “Formal training can be useful, but it isn’t the only way people develop their abilities. We want to see the work, understand what the artist is interested in and consider their willingness to learn. Don’t rule yourself out before we’ve had a chance to review your submission.”

I wrote down her answer, although I knew I would remember it. It didn’t mean I would be selected. It meant I had no reason to disqualify myself before trying.

Tessa waited while I put the information sheet into my folder, then invited me to look at the display in the adjoining room. Artwork from previous community projects hung along the walls. We paused to look at several pieces.

Tessa asked about my drawings again. This time, I opened my folder and showed her the woman standing beside an open window. She studied it before asking whether I had used a reference.

“No. I made it from an idea I had.”

“I like the way the light falls across the room,” she said. “It makes me wonder what she’s looking at.”

I had spent so long keeping that drawing hidden that hearing someone respond to it felt strange. Tessa didn’t praise every detail or pretend it was perfect. She simply told me what had caught her attention, and somehow that meant more.

As we returned to the reception area, Tessa mentioned a small drawing gathering at a community studio nearby. A few local artists met there on Saturday afternoons to work on their own projects, share ideas and practise together. It wasn’t a formal class, and people could bring whatever they were working on.

“They’re meeting again this Saturday,” she said. “I’m planning to go. You could come along if you’d like.”

The thought of entering another room full of unfamiliar people made me nervous, but I was curious too. “Would beginners be welcome?”

“Definitely. Everyone works at their own level. Nobody expects you to arrive with a finished masterpiece.”

We exchanged numbers, and Tessa sent me the studio’s address and the time of the gathering. I saved her contact and thanked her for the invitation before stepping outside.

I had asked a question, shown someone one of my drawings and spoken to a person who understood why I wanted to improve. The day had been worthwhile.

On the way home, I read Tessa’s message again. I could think of reasons to stay home. I didn’t know anyone else there, and I might feel just as out of place as I had that morning. Still, the thought of spending an afternoon drawing with other people interested me more than the idea of staying away.

I put my phone away and continued down the street, thinking about which drawing I might take with me. I wasn’t ready to promise Tessa I would be there, but I wanted to go. For once, the next step in front of me was something I could choose for myself.