I've been mulling over this idea of the "professional artist". What makes you a professional? Is it merely the fact that one has made a sale from their endeavors? Or are you a professional if you solely make a career off your talent. I have a hard time with this concept.
When I was in H.S. I took I Saturday classes at Cooper Union so i could hone my skills and build my portfolio which would be submitted to colleges for the following fall semester. During one assignment we were all given a pair of pliers. Yes, that tool you use to tighten nuts and bolts with. Anyway, we were to draw large scale sketches of the pliers on newsprint paper with charcoal. Now if anyone has used either one of these before, you would know two things – charcoal smudges easily and newsprint paper is flimsy.
I completed my drawing and proceeded outside to the streets of the East Village to display my masterpiece on the façade of the college. There were about fifteen of us scotch-taping our pieces to the metal bars from the construction work encasing the school within. Men and women glanced over as they swiftly walked by. My piece was next to Federico’s drawing. Federico’s piece looked as though it was as good as a picture. I felt very small with my work next to his as though there was no way our work could compare. He was by far the superior artist in my mind. A man was inquiring shortly after my praise of Federico’s work “How much?” but to my surprise he was not asking to purchase the magnificent piers I was admiring but rather my own sketch. Flabbergasted, all I could say was “What?” my friend stepped in and said “$50” and he said “How about $20”I was so excited that someone would actually want to pay for something I spent a few flimsy minutes sketching. I said “OK”
We proceeded to take the work off the scaffolding when one of the teachers scolded us for disrupting the display and then next for selling the piece for so little. I was simply proud to make twenty bucks off of something I was planning to throw away when it was returned to me. I exchanged phone numbers with the man, who wore a business suit and had clean cut blond hair over his finely aged features. He handed me a $20 bill and I was asked to call him when the display was over and to ensure that the charcoal didn’t smudge. He was planning to give the drawing to a friend who owned a hardware store.
Nic Munson was a jazz musician in his early 40’s and lived in London. He was in NYC visiting. After I sealed the charcoal with hairspray, I called Nic to set up and time and place to meet. I chose the Lincoln Center fountain. We chatted for roughly two hours, the end of which he and my very first sale were gone.
Now, my question to you, did this sale automatically thrust me into the position of being a professional artist simply by the exchange of money?

I recieved an art award in 5th grade - an award named after a woman who was deceased at the time my name was called but whose presence was still felt as I made slow moving strides to the stage. Mrs. Dean, she was my second grade teacher and always singled me out from the rest of the class. Small brown skin that only seemed to concern her. I recall pursed lips, standing in the hallway despite the rest of the class heading on to eat their lunches while I was held back for cheating. Cheating on a test only I confidently knew the answers to which Irene fumbled to pass as her own. Yet she was still allowed to alleviate the disturbance rumbling above her belt buckle while my stomach panged me with knowledge. Frozen images of back of the classroom segregation hit me hard.
Standing on stage, I reached out to shake the trembling hands of Mr. Dean who now presented me with the praised Dean Art Award; a small pin sitting on blue foam in a plastic case. I still have it to this day buried beneath memories in a cardboard box. Mrs. Dean must have been watching down from Heaven that day, appauled at the circumstances... color recieving an award for art.