Last weekend, I performed volunteer service in preparation for an environmental festival the following day, hosted by a children's fine arts school just down the road from my university. I didn't do anything grand, just a wipe-down of a table or two here and a broom sweep in one or two classrooms there to make ensure everything looked presentable. While I cleaned, I overhead one of the festival directors mention to a coworker that they were in need of an additional kids face painter for the festival. Upon hearing that, the first thought that came to mind was the one time I did face paintings four years ago (it's harder than it looks, and with untrained facial artists like me, you can imagine how those poor children's faces looked after an attempt to paint a butterfly or snake on their cheeks), so of course I piped in that I knew how. Delighted, they announced to the rest of the staff to no longer worry about getting ahold of another face painter because there was a "professional right here with us!" to which I started, "Oh, actually, I'm not…" But their excitement overwhelmed my refutation, and I couldn't back out.
I was now tasked with a new job, equipped with only a brief and poor experience nearly half a decade ago. I just hoped that the kids won't mind that my face painting skills only provide the vaguest of an resemblance to whatever animal they request.
Upon showing up to do my kids face painting duties the next day, my first customer was a six-year-old girl who requested the following: A. Blue. And. Red. Unicorn. Mask. On. Her. Whole. Face. With. Facial. Glitter.
And that was the moment I knew I was in for a doozy.
Luckily, I used to be an artist, so I'm not super horrible at these kinds of tasks. But pay attention to the usage of past tense in the previous sentence: Yep, I haven't produced a single piece of art since sophomore year of high school after sacrificing it to pursue journalism.
But after several minutes of getting myself acquainted with the paints as well as chatting up my premier "customer" (who declared my outfit "childlike" since my hair was in two short braids with mini pink plastic star hair ties, and my mismatched sushi and artichoke-print socks peeked out of my raspberry-colored hi-top Converse), I began enjoying the task at hand.I loved watching their astonished facial expressions when I'd finish and give them a mirror to look at their painted faces, complete with wide grins and bright eyes. I couldn't help but smile as they ran off to their parent to show off their new look.
Yet strangely, I also started to feel a bit sad.
See, I left the festival that day with the most intense sense of longing I've had in a long time, because I realized I missed being an artist. Sure, writing is a creative art form, but it's foremost one of practicality; on the other hand, the fine arts oftentimes prioritizes that creative aspect before anything else.
Sometimes I wonder what I'd be like had I chosen art over writing. I know I'd definitely be a better and more confident artist, but I'd also most likely not be the qualified writer I am today. In a world of give and take, the choices I've made will always leave me wondering those "what-ifs?".
I'm sad over the person I could be or could have been, but I'm also happy with who I am and where I'm at in my life right now. I'm glad to have face painted again, and more than anything, I'm glad I now know I'm capable of making others happy, even if only temporarily.