Why I Wait for the Art Show: Reflections on Art, Teaching, and Community

Why I Wait for the Art Show: Reflections on Art, Teaching, and Community

With just a few days left until the SchoolNova Art Show, I visited the exhibition space to prepare as the art teacher. The room was quiet, its walls still bare, and the air held that unique stillness that always comes before something meaningful. But I know from experience—this silence won’t last long. Soon, the space will be transformed by the vibrant presence of our students’ artwork.

In moments like this, I’m reminded of a scene from A Little Princess, a story I loved as a child. In one of its most touching chapters, the main character Sara returns to her freezing attic room after a long, difficult day. But instead of the usual cold and emptiness, she finds her room magically changed—warm blankets, glowing candles, and hot food waiting for her. It turns out someone had quietly come in and transformed her world without her knowing. That gentle, silent magic always stayed with me.

I feel something similar when I witness an empty gallery come alive with student art. Each piece brings warmth, light, and imagination to the space. The transformation is quiet but powerful, and suddenly the room feels full of life and possibility.

These works are more than just pictures—they carry the emotions, observations, and inner worlds of each student. They reflect how our young artists see and interpret the world around them with sincerity and creativity. That is why I always fall in love with this process, year after year. There is a kind of magic in watching their work come together, speaking softly to anyone who takes the time to look.
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I feel truly grateful to be part of this. To help guide and witness these moments of transformation—of both space and spirit—is one of the greatest joys of being an art teacher.

This watercolor painting is something I recently created myself. It depicts a quiet scene of ducks gathered at the edge of the water—some swimming gently, others resting or simply observing. Each duck faces a different direction, yet they coexist in calm harmony. To me, this moment captured in nature speaks to something deeper: the beauty of individual rhythm within shared space, and the quiet connection that can exist without the need for uniformity.

When I observe my students creating, I feel something similar. Each child approaches art differently—some with caution, some with bold strokes, and others with unexpected bursts of imagination after moments of stillness. My role as a teacher is not to shape them into the same mold, but to honor their unique pace and guide them with patience and care.

Art education, in my view, is not about rushing toward results. It’s about allowing space and time for students to dwell in their thoughts, to notice, to explore, and to express. True creativity cannot be forced; it emerges naturally when a student feels seen, respected, and unhurried. And that’s what I aim to provide—a space where art is not only taught, but lived, observed, and slowly unfolded.
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This painting is a quiet reflection of those beliefs. It holds within it my observations as an artist, but also as an educator. I painted it not just to depict a scene, but to capture a feeling—a reminder that beauty often lies in stillness, and growth often happens in silence. Teaching, like painting, is often about waiting for the right moment—and recognizing it when it comes.

When I first began my journey as an artist, all I wanted was to be in my studio, quietly painting my own work. I dreamed of long, uninterrupted hours in the soft light filtering through the window, with the scent of paint in the air and only my thoughts for company. My goal was to grow as a painter—to express, explore, and deepen my own artistic voice. Teaching was never part of that vision. In fact, when people asked if I would consider teaching children, I often turned them down. It didn’t feel like the path I had chosen.

But time passed. I continued to paint, to exhibit, and to live through both fulfilling and difficult seasons in my creative life. Gradually, something began to shift. A small moment here, a quiet conversation there—a child asking an earnest question while looking at one of my paintings, or the unexpected joy of guiding a young student in a short workshop—these gentle interruptions planted seeds of change.

I slowly began to realize something I hadn’t fully understood before: art and education are not so different. Art, at its core, is a language of sharing, of translating inner experience into something others can see, feel, and interpret. Teaching, too, is not about imposing knowledge, but about discovering meaning together. It’s about presence, patience, and the quiet act of believing in someone’s potential even before they see it in themselves.

In the classroom, I started to witness moments of genuine magic—the kind of spark that happens when a child sees what they’re capable of for the first time. Their wonder began to reawaken my own. Questions I had carried alone in my studio found new life through their perspectives. My art grew richer, more layered—not despite teaching, but because of it.

I no longer see art and education as separate pursuits. I now believe that to teach with sincerity is to engage in one of the most profound forms of creative practice. Waiting, observing, encouraging, guiding—these are deeply artistic acts. I still cherish my quiet studio time. But now, the sounds outside that space—the laughter, questions, and curiosity of my students—have become an equally vital part of my creative world.
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This is why I continue to paint, and why I continue to teach. Art may begin as a solitary path, but I’ve come to learn that it often reaches farther, and touches more lives, when we walk it together.

And when that creative exchange extends beyond the classroom and into the wider community, its impact grows even stronger. Art, when shared in public spaces, becomes more than personal expression—it becomes a form of connection. It invites others to pause, to feel, to reflect, and perhaps to see the world a little differently. That is the quiet but powerful ripple effect of art shared with others.

This is why events like our annual art show are so meaningful. They are not just displays of student work, nor are they merely school traditions. They are living, breathing moments where young artists step into a larger conversation—where their voices, often still forming and delicate, are given space to be seen and heard. In these shared spaces, art becomes a bridge: between students and their families, between generations, between the school and the community around it.

When families, neighbors, and friends gather to view the works, something special happens. They don’t just see images on paper—they see effort, imagination, growth, and individuality. They see a child’s interpretation of beauty, of complexity, of hope. And in that exchange, community is not just observed—it is built.

As an educator and artist, I’ve come to believe that this kind of sharing is essential. It reminds us that art is not meant to stay confined within studio walls or classroom corners. It is meant to move—through people, through spaces, through hearts. And it’s in these collective moments, like an art show, that we are reminded of how art can quietly but powerfully bind us together.
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That is the deeper purpose of this art show. It is not only the culmination of a year's worth of lessons—it is the unfolding of something far greater: a community coming together to witness and celebrate the voices of its youngest creators.

​All of this is why I look forward to this art show with such a full heart.

It is more than an event—it is a moment where my roles as artist, teacher, and community member come together in the most meaningful way. I see my students stepping into their voices, families connecting through creativity, and a quiet space transformed into a place of joy, reflection, and discovery.
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This show is not just a celebration of art—it is a celebration of growth, of connection, and of the shared beauty that emerges when we create and witness together. And that is why, every year, I wait for this moment with both gratitude and anticipation.