The Night I Couldn't Say "I'm an Artist

Five months abroad taught me to call myself an artist. It didn't teach me to sketch in cafes.

On Christmas Eve, at a party in Laos, a girl I'd just met asked me what I do for a living. I looked down at the beer in my hand and mumbled something like, "Ohh… I draw buildings and shops. Not like an architect, but with watercolors."

"So you're an artist," she said.

I smiled awkwardly and nodded. I just couldn't say it out loud.

Me in Riga airport minutes before going on my first big solo trip.

I'd been drawing shopfronts for five years. I earned my living from my art, taught other people how to draw, sold my paintings and just a month earlier, I'd published my first book. And still, when someone called me an artist, I felt like an imposter.

The kitchen, and the word I never used

Before art became my full-time work, I worked in kitchens for years.

Being a chef came with a clear identity. I had a role, a routine and a salary. I got up, went to work, cooked, came home exhausted, and did it all again the next day. Once a month, money came into my bank account. If someone asked what I did, I could answer without hesitating.

"I'm a chef."

That was it. Nobody questioned it, including me.

Art, on the other hand, is different. I don't think there's one specific moment when you cross the line from being someone who draws on Saturday afternoons to being an artist. There's no official ceremony where someone hands you a certificate and says, "Congratulations, you may now call yourself an artist."

I guess that's what happens when you're self-taught. If you go to an art school, I’m pretty sure they will give you a diploma at the end.

Maybe I'd feel like a proper artist when I had more customers or when I got better at drawing. Maybe when I had an exhibition or published a book. Then I published a book, and apparently my brain went, Naaah, that doesn't count. It wasn't a New York Times bestseller. I'm still not a real artist.

My first published book "Cozy Shops In Watercolor"

The problem was that no matter what I achieved, it never seemed to be enough. Every time I reached a milestone, I found another reason I couldn't call myself an artist.

Plan everything, then lose the plan

I planned the Thailand part of my solo trip down to the smallest details. It was the first country on my itinerary. All my hotels and transportation were booked, and I'd saved places I wanted to eat and things I wanted to see. Traveling alone was new to me, and having a proper plan made it feel safe.

Then I met Billy. We spent a few days together exploring the small town of Prachuap Khiri Khan, where I'd booked my stay for three weeks. When he told me he was going to Chiang Mai next and suggested I come along, I hesitated for a few days.

Me an Billy in Phraya Nakhon Cave.

I wanted to stay in one place, draw and film coloring tutorials. I imagined walking around town and sketching in cafes. Going somewhere new sounded exciting, but I worried about having less time for art. Part of me felt that changing my plans meant letting myself down. I'd come all this way from home and I was supposed to be on my own and drawing most of the time.

But I said yes anyway.

I changed my plans, got a refund for the hotel nights I wouldn't use and went to Chiang Mai. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I made, even though I didn't draw anything while I was there.

Instead, we did so many fun things I wouldn't have done on my own, and I got to see the sunrise from the highest mountain in Thailand. It was gooorgeous and I was glad I'd said yes to his invitation. Nothing terrible happened because I changed my plans. I didn't ruin my trip or somehow become less of an artist because I spent a week doing something other than drawing.

Watching sunrise from Doi Inthanon - very cold and sleepy.

So that means: I can change my mind. I can try something different. I can switch from Plan A to Plan B and if Plan B doesn't work out, well… how many more letters are there in the alphabet?

On December 23, I flew to Laos.

The party I almost skipped

The next day, I found a Christmas party through an app called Nomadtable. The group chat was so full of people that I almost didn't go.

What if it was awkward? What if they didn't like me? So many questions, all about the worst-case scenarios. But a little voice inside said, No, Una, let's gooo.

That was the party where I met the girl who asked what I did for a living. It was also where I met Rico and his partner, after a few (or not so few) beers.

Me, Rico, Raphael and a French guy at 3am going back to hotels after a perfect party.

The next day, some of us from the party went on a sunset boat cruise on the Mekong River. If I remember correctly, that's where I showed Rico my Instagram and my drawings.

"They're so beautiful!" he said.

From the look on his face, I could tell he realllly meant it. I'm used to reading comments on Instagram saying that my work looks beautiful or pretty. They make me happy, of course, but hearing someone's enthusiasm about my art in person felt different.

And, to be honest, a bit uncomfortable. Behind my "Thank you so much," I wanted to melt into the floor. How could my art possibly deserve such lovely words?

I couldn't look at my drawings the way he did. I saw all the things that I wished I'd done better. I'd spent so many hours looking at each drawing that I knew every little thing. Rico saw something different. His reaction was one of the most heartfelt responses to my art I'd ever experienced.

Because of how happy he made me feel about my art, I painted a drawing of Rico and his partner kayaking near the mountain they'd hiked up in Nong Khiaw. You should have seen their faces when they saw the little gift I'd made for them.

Three weeks in Nong Khiaw

I went to Nong Khiaw, a small town in northern Laos, planning to stay for one week. I ended up staying for three. I found a cafe that became my favorite place in town and became friends with the owner. Whenever I was afraid to do something, he would say, "Do it. I believe in you."

I'd never gone hiking alone before. I always thought it was something you needed two people for. In Nong Khiaw, I did it on my own! I started with a smaller climb to the Sleeping Lady viewpoint. A few days later, after giving my legs time to recover, I climbed to Phar Khew Lom, ate croissants at the top, and made my way back down with the proudest smile on my face.

Eating a croissant and looking at Nong Khiaw - Phar Khew Lom viewpoint.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't suddenly the most confident person in the world. I simply did something while feeling uncertain and scared.

With hiking, I'd assumed I needed someone else. With art, I'd made up all these rules in my head: No degree meant I wasn't qualified enough. No exhibition meant I wasn't established enough. Work that wasn't perfect meant I wasn't good enough.

I'm rereading these lines now and, man, how stupid that sounds.

"Una is an artist"

By the time I met a group of girls in Vietnam, I'd been living in Hoi An for almost a month. One of them, Lauranne, became a close friend and, eventually, one of my biggest supporters.

Me and Lauranne on a boat after the tour to My Son Sanctuary.

Whenever we met new people, she'd introduce me: "Una is an artist. She draws shopfronts and she has a book." She said it so naturally, in the French-English accent I absolutely adore. She wasn't trying to convince anyone nor she had any doubts about what to call me.

Meanwhile, my inner voice kept asking, Really? Since when?

Over time, I started accepting the word artist. It didn't sound so scary after I'd heard it so many times coming from her. I think I needed to get out of the digital world and hear those words out loud. Somehow, seeing people react to my work in person helped me understood that what I'm doing is making me an artist.

After we parted ways, I found myself in Ninh Binh, where two things happened that showed me how much had changed since the start of this trip.

First, I wrote to my publishers about a second book. It took me three days to go from wishing I could do it to actually pressing send.

What if the first book hadn't done well enough? What if they didn't want to work with me anymore? Maybe I should wait for them to contact me. What would they think if I emailed them first?

Eventually, I told myself to stop overthinking it. Write the email and send it. If I could travel solo and get this far, I could probably survive sending an email. And I did.

Then, one morning, I was sitting in a cafe drinking my coffee when the owners invited me to eat with them. A few minutes later, two other girls joined us.

This time, there was no Lauranne, no Rico. There was just me. When someone asked what I did for a living, I simply replied, "I'm an artist." It came out naturally. Even my inner voice wasn't dramatically shouting, "Ohh, the audacity!" Nobody asked to see my qualifications. My ears didn't fall off. The conversation just moved on. On the outside, I looked calm, continuing to talk and drink my salt coffee. On the inside, I was thinking, OMG, I said it! I wish my friends were here to see this.

What the trip didn't change

There's one thing that didn't change on this trip: I barely drew in my travel sketchbooks, even though I'd brought two of them. And if you've ever traveled with just one bag, you know space matters. Taking up valuable space with two sketchbooks I barely used? Not smart, Una, not smart.

I'd imagined spending hours sketching in cafes and on the streets as I traveled. That seemed like the proper thing an artist exploring Southeast Asia would do. Instead, I made exactly one drawing in my sketchbook: a bánh mì from Bánh Mì Phượng, the place I'd read about because of Anthony Bourdain.

My only drawing in sketchbook- bánh mì.

I made other drawings, too, but they were gifts for some of the shopfront owners I met along the way. I drew them on separate sheets of paper that I prepared before the trip.

I don't enjoy drawing on the spot when people are watching me. I find it hard to draw when I'm aware of people looking over my shoulder. I prefer drawing at home from photographs, where I can take my time, put on music or a travel vlog on the background and eat some snacks while I'm waiting for color to dry.

For a while, I treated this as a flaw. Other artists seemed to fill sketchbooks in beautiful locations and I thought I should be doing the same. I also wanted to film those sketchbook tour reels. Not gonna lie, they look satisfying. But I need to trust what I actually enjoy and stop forcing a creative process that doesn't work for me.

I don't think coming home with empty sketchbooks means I failed to travel like an artist. If anything, the trip taught me a lot about the kind of artist I am and want to be. During those five months, I changed my plans, went hiking alone, emailed my publishers before I felt ready, and made drawings for shopfront owners who were happy to receive them.

I still have doubts about my work. I don't think they'll disappear completely. But I'm learning that I don't have to wait until I feel ready or confident to do something. And I think you don't have to wait, either.

Back at my parents' place - ten times more confident and ready to conquer new adventures.

So, what do I do for a living?

Now, if you ask me what I do for a living, I have an answer. No weird laugh. No mumbling into a beer.

I'm an artist. I draw cozy shopfronts, I teach other people how to draw them, and I've published a book.

All of those things were already true that Christmas Eve in Laos.

I just wasn't ready to say them yet.