After the rush

It happens every time. Even though I know it's coming. Even though I've experienced it before. It still creeps up on me… the post-solo slump. My work comes down. I drive past the gallery windows and see the empty walls. I feel a little anxious, decidedly blue, and somewhat at loose ends.

There is extensive time, effort and thought that goes into mounting a solo exhibition. There are months of work leading up to the opening: creating and choosing the artwork, framing decisions, creating an exhibition binder of process images, artist statement, and cv, making a price list, and figuring out the dates for the opening, artist talk, and possible workshops. Equally important is how to get the word out to my audience… postcards, emails, blog posts, social media and signage.

Exhibition energy

I feel giddy excitement, anticipation, and the sheer joy of seeing the gallery space hung with my work. While the exhibit is up, I exult in having the work out and in the world. I prepare for the opening, give an artist talk, put together an in-gallery collage workshop, meet friends and newcomers, speak about my work and process. It feels vital, life-giving and energizing. I treasure every time a sale is made, and a work is promised to a new collection and has a new home. I arrange to have the exhibit professionally photographed, start working on an exhibition catalog, and visit the space often.

And then poof. It's over. Six weeks fly by. Time is a strange thing. The work comes down and is wrapped up. Another artist’s work is hung on the gallery walls. In a blink of an eye all the preparation and excitement is over. Even when I am happy with the exhibit and it is well received, I experience disappointment and feel let down. The desire that more people had been able to see it.

Now what

There is follow up to do. New collectors to reach out to, completing an exhibition catalog, writing proposals for the exhibit to travel to other venues. Still, much like the Sunday blues, I find myself knee deep in a post-exhibit fog. It is an uncomfortable place, and there are remedies, though I also want to honor the sadness and recognize it too as a natural part of being an artist. The cycle of creating and sharing my work with the world, then letting go and heading back into the studio.

Before I get back to work, I need to recharge and reconnect with myself. I spend hours in the garden, take long walks, listen to and read books, reacquaint myself with my other in-progress projects. I go to see art, meet up with friends and family, allow ideas to percolate within. For now I am grateful that it is spring, that everything is blooming, and there is color and scent, birdsong and renewal everywhere. And soon, very soon I will happily be back at it.

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