In 1969, fresh out of art school in New York, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: design album covers to pay the rent.
So, with all the confidence of a twenty-something artist who didn’t know better, I walked straight into Columbia Records and asked the receptionist if I could see the Art Director.
To my shock, she actually called him. And to my greater shock, he actually came out.
He looked me over — probably wondering if I was lost — but humored me. I told him I wanted to design record covers. He said, “Do you have a portfolio?”
“Well,” I said, “sort of.”
I handed him a few small pieces — more like hopeful experiments than a real portfolio — and waited while he flipped through them. He shrugged, said he’d get back to me, and I figured that was polite New York for good luck, kid.
But a week later, he actually did call back. And to my complete disbelief, he asked, “Would you be interested in doing a Miles Davis cover?”
Interested? Are you kidding? I nearly dropped the phone.
That was the day I learned confidence gets you farther than fear ever will.
Every city I’ve lived in has carried a story I felt called to speak into through my art. Never easily, and never quickly. It’s always taken time — making a mess, destroying more then a few canvases, and waiting for something true to surface. But somehow, it always paid off — always brought a bit of victory, a quiet reminder that the struggle was worth it.
Now, here I am again. Two years into Nashville, and I’m still not sure what this city’s story is. Is it the clash between old and new — both searching for a voice? The chaos of Broadway? Or maybe it’s the endless green. I get it — nature thrives here. But I’ve always believed blue was the perfect color.
I’ve spent hours praying, asking God what story I’m meant to tell in this place. Nothing. Silence. And then, one day, staring into this white void, I heard it — quietly: Maybe the story isn’t about a place. Maybe it’s about a person — me. Maybe it’s time to paint that story — not through realism or representation, but through something freer. A form of abstract expressionism born from faith, emotion, and the personal wrestlings that have shaped me here. A new language of color, movement, and prayer.
So here it is: the blank canvas. In a smaller studio I’m deeply grateful for. Honestly, I’m still stressing over making the first mark — will it be a brush, a marker, a squeegee, fingers? It’s overwhelming, yes, but somewhere inside that hesitation is a strange joy — the anticipation of that first mark, that first gesture that begins to speak, and brings with it both delight and peace.
Victor Atkins
**🎨 Miles in the Sky (and Me in the Lobby)
In 1969, fresh out of art school in New York, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: design album covers to pay the rent.
So, with all the confidence of a twenty-something artist who didn’t know better, I walked straight into Columbia Records and asked the receptionist if I could see the Art Director.
To my shock, she actually called him.
And to my greater shock, he actually came out.
He looked me over — probably wondering if I was lost — but humored me.
I told him I wanted to design record covers.
He said, “Do you have a portfolio?”
“Well,” I said, “sort of.”
I handed him a few small pieces — more like hopeful experiments than a real portfolio — and waited while he flipped through them.
He shrugged, said he’d get back to me, and I figured that was polite New York for good luck, kid.
But a week later, he actually did call back.
And to my complete disbelief, he asked,
“Would you be interested in doing a Miles Davis cover?”
Interested? Are you kidding? I nearly dropped the phone.
That was the day I learned confidence gets you farther than fear ever will.
#MilesDavis #MilesInTheSky #ArtistLife #Painter #StudioStories #AbstractArt #CreativeProcess #ArtJourney #BeyondTheWhiteCanvas
2 months ago | [YT] | 0
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Victor Atkins
Facing the Blank Canvas
A blank white canvas — friend or foe?
Every city I’ve lived in has carried a story I felt called to speak into through my art. Never easily, and never quickly. It’s always taken time — making a mess, destroying more then a few canvases, and waiting for something true to surface. But somehow, it always paid off — always brought a bit of victory, a quiet reminder that the struggle was worth it.
Now, here I am again. Two years into Nashville, and I’m still not sure what this city’s story is. Is it the clash between old and new — both searching for a voice? The chaos of Broadway? Or maybe it’s the endless green. I get it — nature thrives here. But I’ve always believed blue was the perfect color.
I’ve spent hours praying, asking God what story I’m meant to tell in this place. Nothing. Silence. And then, one day, staring into this white void, I heard it — quietly: Maybe the story isn’t about a place. Maybe it’s about a person — me.
Maybe it’s time to paint that story — not through realism or representation, but through something freer. A form of abstract expressionism born from faith, emotion, and the personal wrestlings that have shaped me here. A new language of color, movement, and prayer.
So here it is: the blank canvas. In a smaller studio I’m deeply grateful for. Honestly, I’m still stressing over making the first mark — will it be a brush, a marker, a squeegee, fingers? It’s overwhelming, yes, but somewhere inside that hesitation is a strange joy — the anticipation of that first mark, that first gesture that begins to speak, and brings with it both delight and peace.
#FacingTheBlankCanvas #ArtistLife #Painter #StudioProcess #CreativeFaith #AbstractExpressionism #NashvilleArtist #ArtJourney #FaithAndArt #SpiritualCreativity #ArtStudio #VisualPrayer #CreativeProcess #NewWorkInProgress #BeyondTheWhiteCanvas #ArtisticJourney #BlankCanvas #PainterLife #StudioStories #MakingArtMatter
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