As I get everything ready for the Queenstown Art Show, I've found myself thinking back to when I first started exhibiting at art shows. It seems like a lifetime ago now.

My first Dunedin Art Show was filled with papier-mâché sculptures — dragons, masks and strange-looking birds and animals. I arrived full of hope, excitement, nervousness, and absolutely no idea what to expect.

I sold one piece.

To my mother.

Mum had always been one of my biggest supporters. She came to every exhibition she could, and I can still picture that moment so clearly. She held that dragon all the way to the counter up as if it were flying.

Some examples of the works I took to earlier shows.

I was incredibly fortunate to have parents who always encouraged me to keep making art. Dad did often suggest that being an accountant would be a better financial choice, but he knew it was never going to happen, and it turned into a family joke.

I still miss them both. Looking back, I've realised how much confidence comes simply from knowing there are people quietly standing behind you, believing in you, even when you are not entirely sure what you are doing.

These days, exhibiting feels very different.

I'm fortunate that my work attracts plenty of interest at shows now, and of course it's wonderful when sculptures find new homes. I am always thrilled when someone wants to have a piece of my art in their home. Sales matter too—we all have bills to pay—but I've noticed something has changed over the years. If I have a slower show, I no longer find myself wondering whether people like my work or whether I should be doing something differently.

That shift didn't happen overnight.

Years ago, I made a conscious decision to think of art shows less as places where I had to sell work, and more as a kind of workshop or even an art holiday. They became opportunities to meet other artists, talk with visitors, learn how to present my work better, make connections, become more visible, and simply enjoy being surrounded by people who love art.

Ironically, once I stopped measuring a successful show purely by sales, I started enjoying them much more—and I probably learnt far more than I would have otherwise.

Perhaps some of that confidence also comes with getting older. There is confidence too, in working through a lot of ideas and skills art-wise until there is a coherence to the work itself.

I guess it comes down to perseverance and practice with art, probably with life too.

Might take some bats this time, they need an outing

I'll be turning fifty-eight soon, and somewhere along the way I've realised that time isn't an endless resource. When you're younger there's a quiet assumption that old age belongs to other people, that somehow the aging process will not happen to you. Then one day your knees remind you otherwise.

You begin to understand that your energy is better spent making the work than worrying what everyone thinks of it. There is such a freedom in that knowledge.

There are simply too many ideas waiting to be made.

So now the list has been checked, sculptures are wrapped, everything is (mostly) packed, and I'm almost ready to head to Queenstown.

Packing is always an adventure with Max. Bubble wrap is exciting, it's for stealing, chewing up, shaking furiously or swapping out for a treat if not kept on the table at all times. He spends the day generally being pesky before eventually wondering why he's been banished outside.

I'm looking forward to catching up with artist friends, meeting plenty of visitors, spending a few days in one of New Zealand's most beautiful places, and seeing where this year's show leads.

Whatever happens, I know it'll be worth the trip.

Art shows

The Game of Life