The Shopping Bag I Clutched in the Rehearsal Studio
Because his life, his career, his priorities came first. Until they did not.
I was running an errand for my husband when I walked past Pearl Art Store on 23rd Street in Manhattan. Not my errand. His.
He was a concert pianist. I was his career manager, recording producer, and publicist rolled into one. And on that particular day, he needed me to pick something up on the other side of town. Time-sensitive. His priority. As always.
But as I hurried past, I saw the posters in the window. Art supplies. Four floors of them.
I couldn’t stop. Not then. His errand was too important. But I promised myself I’d come back.
And I did.
When I finally walked through those doors, it felt like stepping into a cathedral. Four floors of painting supplies. PAINTING supplies. I was like a kid in a candy store—no, better than that. I was a woman who’d been performing someone else’s life for years, suddenly remembering: I have a dream too.
The selection of paint in tubes was staggering. The quality was outstanding. I had no idea such color came packaged without mixing on a palette. I was enthralled. Mesmerized. Very eager to begin painting.
This was long before cell phones, so I didn’t call my husband. But I damn sure made a list of items I wanted to return to purchase.
The Mistake
When I came back to buy supplies, I brought him with me. That was a mistake.
While he pretended to be happy and supportive, he was also very impatient. He had scheduled rehearsal time at the RCA practice studio. Taking time to shop for art supplies for me was his way of playing nice—so I’d go sit with him while he rehearsed. I didn’t see it at the time, but this was nothing but ego. Feeding his narcissistic traits.
I bought a starter kit—12 tubes of paint, a set of brushes, two small canvases. We probably spent about $150. I felt glee. Not guilt. No guilt because he bought it—again, as a carrot to keep me working for his music career.
The Rehearsal Studio
We took a cab to the rehearsal studios. I sat there trying to curb my enthusiasm and my frustration because all I wanted to do was get home—back up to the Westside of Manhattan—to set up my new supplies and play with the paint.
But instead, we took the cab to his place of practice. I kept the shopping bag of my new supplies right next to me while I sat in the rehearsal studio with him and seethed, just below the surface. He never knew.
I played the dutiful wife, career manager, recording producer. I put my focus on him and his music until we got home.
The Guest Bedroom
When we finally got back to the apartment, I went straight to our guest bedroom—which eventually became my studio. For the time being, I set up a card table and placed a tabletop easel on top of it. Arranged the tubes of color around it, set out the brushes, and of course, the jar of brush cleaner. Then I sort of sat there in front of it in awe. And giddy.
He was out running his own errands that didn’t require my time or attention. I had about an hour. I’m not clear if I was giddy about the supplies or the time to myself.
I did begin swirling paint after sitting for a few minutes. Just swirling some red and black, which eventually became the backdrop for the candle painting.
I paint in 20-minute time blocks. Never longer. I don’t know why that is. I just always have.
The Red Candle
I came back to the red candle painting multiple times. It was my own piece of joy—daily—that had nothing to do with anything else but me and the paint.
When it was finished, he wanted to hang it in the living room. Which he did. Sort of without discussing it with me. Just took it and hung it up.
It was in a prominent space so anyone coming in would have to see it. I think he felt proud. And somehow it was an extension of him.
The Next 20 Years
Yes, the red candle was only the beginning. During my time in NYC, I painted around 35 other paintings. But that’s over the course of 20 years.
So it was off and on—because tending to his career and my kids living in Virginia required me to fly down to Virginia every two weeks. Which I did. For four years. Until my eldest graduated from high school.
So painting very often took a back seat. It was not until both of my daughters were graduated that I took it seriously enough to begin eking out a living from it.
But even then, it would take another decade—and one particular painting—before I finally saw myself as an artist.
The End of the Marriage
The marriage to the pianist ended about a year after 9/11. That tragedy impacted our recording/producing business and basically destroyed the marriage. Not a stretch, as it was already hanging by a thread.
The red candle had been shoved into a closet.
I forgot to grab it when I left because I didn’t plan to leave. Rather, I left because I found out about his affair with a fashion model. I made an unplanned and hasty exist.
I left that painting in the closet. Just like I’d left myself in the margins for 20 years.
I left that painting in the closet. Just like I’d left myself in the margins for 20 years.
But I took the dream with me. Even if I didn’t know it yet.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about the painting that changed everything—the one that finally made me see myself as an artist. The one that moved painting from the margins to the center.
But today, I want you to know this:
For 20 years, I created in stolen moments. In the margins. Between his rehearsals and my daughters’ needs. Always last.
It took me decades to move painting from the margins to the center.
But you don’t have to wait that long.
If you’ve been living in the margins—performing roles instead of living your truth—the Breakthrough Guide is for you.
It walks you back to yourself. It helps you:
✨ Name what’s not working without shame
✨ Reclaim your voice where it went silent
✨ Break patterns that keep you small, stuck, or spinning
✨ Build a life that fits you, not the roles you were handed
It’s not therapy. It’s not coaching.
It’s a mirror, a map, and a match—reflecting your truth, showing your next step, and igniting the fire to take it.
Heart it if you’ve ever created something beautiful in stolen moments. Comment with one thing you’ve been doing “in the margins” that deserves to be center.