From Printmaker to Teacher to Artist: A Creative Path Revisited

IHigh school in Long Island offered an unexpected revelation: that summer art class at the local Waldorf School where everything clicked. Suddenly, I became the student who prioritized studio time over study hall—thankfully supported by understanding teachers who recognized genuine passion when they saw it.

This early attraction to making led me to the Rhode Island School of Design, where I studied Printmaking and graduated in 2001. The appeal wasn't just aesthetic—printmaking's technical demands and physical processes offered endless exploration possibilities. Each technique required mastering specific tools and materials, creating a foundation that would prove invaluable years later, though I didn't realize it at the time.

Post-graduation reality meant practical decisions. Working as a jewelry sample maker in Providence, then advancing to designer roles with brands like Betsey Johnson and Kenneth Cole, seemed like a natural progression. I even pursued formal training at FIT in jewelry design. Yet something felt misaligned—the fashion industry's demanding culture and unsustainable practices conflicted with my deeper values about creative work.

The solution appeared to be art education. In 2008, I completed an intensive master's program at the School of Visual Arts, then began teaching at PS 317, The Waterside Children's Studio School in Queens. Discovering Teaching for Artistic Behavior philosophy transformed my approach—watching PreK through 5th grade students develop confidence as artists became genuinely fulfilling work. When my family relocated to Westchester in 2015, I continued this practice in the Bedford Central School District.

But here's what I hadn't anticipated: a decade of supporting others' creative development while neglecting my own would eventually create an unsustainable void.

Recovery from arm and wrist surgery in 2018 provided the first hint of what needed to change. Between physical healing, career demands, and raising two children, exhaustion had settled into every corner of daily life. Then came the uncertain summer of 2020—not knowing what the upcoming school year would look like for either my students or my own elementary-aged children created an impossible equation. The decision emerged from clarity rather than crisis: I could set aside teaching temporarily to prioritize my family's needs during such unprecedented circumstances.

What began as a pandemic pause gradually revealed itself as permanent transition. As life slowly adjusted to new rhythms, continuing to postpone my own artistic practice felt increasingly inauthentic. The choice became clear—leaving teaching wasn't just beneficial for my family, but necessary for my own creative survival.

Choosing authenticity meant acknowledging that since 2001, I had been either designing for others or teaching art, but never fully developing my own creative voice. The following years required relearning fundamental processes, rediscovering what it meant to create from personal curiosity rather than external expectations.

Initial steps were deliberately small: playful mark-making during recovery, watercolor experiments as my wrists regained strength. Participating in online collage challenges through communities like the Paris Collage Collective and Februllage provided structured prompts that proved invaluable for warming up creative muscles that had been dormant.

These challenges taught me something crucial: creativity functions like physical fitness. It requires regular practice, especially when shifting from familiar applications to unexplored territory. After weeks of responding to prompts, I gradually transitioned to self-directed exploration, developing smaller collections that eventually evolved into larger bodies of work.

The difference between creating for others versus creating from personal investigation became increasingly clear. My current practice centers on observation, documentation, and material exploration—themes that connect directly to those early printmaking experiences but now serve entirely different purposes.

Rather than mastering tools for external applications, I'm exploring how careful attention to surroundings can generate authentic artistic responses. This shift from technical facility to investigative curiosity has proven both challenging and deeply rewarding.

Each material carries its own narrative potential. Found papers, repurposed studio scraps, natural pigments—these aren't just supplies but collaborative partners in ongoing conversations about environment, memory, and creative reuse.

What strikes me most about this circuitous path is how necessary each phase proved to be. Teaching provided a deep understanding of creative development processes. Jewelry design offered precision and attention to detail. Even the burnout served a purpose—forcing an honest evaluation of what authentic practice actually requires.

Now, fully engaged in studio work that prioritizes curiosity over certainty, I understand why that high school art room felt so compelling. It wasn't just about making things—it was about discovering what happens when you pay genuine attention to materials, processes, and the subtle interactions between observation and creative response.

The most direct route to artistic authenticity isn't always linear. Sometimes it requires temporary detours that teach you precisely what you're not meant to be doing, ultimately clarifying what you are meant to be.

Interested in learning more about my current studio practice or upcoming exhibitions? Visit allisonbelolan.com or connect via email for studio visit possibilities