For a long time, a decade probably, I’ve wanted to go into art therapy. Not as a patient but as a therapist. Though a patient, I might oughta be. I was super depressed one day all alone in the house, and I sculpted a perfect gala apple. The process of making something beautiful with my hands pulled me out of the pit. I also made a pretty, tall and lean blue cat. I really liked that cat.
I began to imagine a practice in a building that had many rooms, some used for therapy and some containing art donated by clients for sale or exposition. There would be paintings and drawings and sculptures and pottery and other 3D art. I particularly like the idea of a gallery of truly emotional artwork. But there’d be a lot of demons hanging around. Not sure how ethical that is.
I looked it up, and to be an art therapist requires things I don’t have. Like a masters degree in the subject and a significant background in all sorts of art. It’s also a hard gig to get.
I was an architect major for a little while in college. Immediately after graduating with a different degree, I visited campuses and applied for a masters in architecture. I was this close (pinching fingers together) to taking that route, then life happened. I wouldn’t change a thing, but I think I would have really enjoyed that career. I think I would have been a good architect.
There aren’t enough years in a lifetime. If there were, I’d have all sorts of careers.
I’d be a classical musician.
I’d maybe even be a writer. But that wouldn’t pay the bills.
I liked being an editor. Hmm.
I’m just mulling outloud on a screen.
Rebelling against conventional verbiage.