The Joyful Imposter: What Life Taught Me That Art School Couldn’t
Sometimes I kick myself for not going to art school. I mean, I could have. I scored a neat 96% for my university entry Bachelor of Fine Arts painting portfolio. It was clear I had something. Maybe that was always my calling?
But no—off I went, stage left. Instead of fine art, I chose the bright lights of the performing arts. First stop: performing arts school in Wellington, New Zealand. Then, drama school in London. And what followed was a whirlwind decade as a (sometimes!) working actress in the UK.
Exit Stage Left: My Life in the Performing Arts
There were loads of plays, bit parts on TV, a few feature films, some leads in horror flicks, a little bit of modelling, and some lucrative TV commercials. It wasn’t always glamorous—some of it was downright gritty—but it was the path I needed to take. An itch I had to scratch.
In the mid-2000s, I co-founded a grassroots theatre company with two friends from drama school. We hired theatres in London, produced our own fringe shows (yes, we gave ourselves the best roles—perks of being your own boss!), and roped in some seriously talented writers and actors. We were scrappy, broke, and buzzing with ideas. It was magic.
Writing, Wandering & The Quiet Pull of Paint
To pay the bills between gigs, I turned to writing. I became a theatre and film critic, a restaurant reviewer, a copywriter, a lifestyle journalist. I launched The London Word, a blog about the thrills of a creative life in the concrete jungle. I travelled regularly to Florida for work as a content editor for a US webzine. I lived in Ibiza for a while, covering the music scene, interviewing DJs, musos, rappers, actors. Life was fast-paced, exciting—and a little chaotic. But something was always... missing.
I barely touched a paintbrush during those London years. An occasional sketch here, an abstract experiment there, but nothing consistent. Writing was my creative outlet, and I loved it, but in hindsight, I wonder: was it standing in for something deeper?
Where the Wild Things Are: Kids and Country Roads
Fast forward to my late 30s. I had my first child, swapped London for the English countryside, and—without realising it—started to rediscover the visual arts again. That’s when the “what ifs” crept in. What if I’d gone to art school? Would I be further along? More confident? More “legit”?
But I’ve come to believe this: drama school was exactly what I needed back then. As a shy teenager, it gave me confidence. I grew so much in those years—on stage and off. And now, with all that life behind me—motherhood, travel, career twists and turns—I feel more me than ever. The only thing against me now is time!
The Art of Rediscovery
Six years ago, I founded an art gallery in rural Norfolk, UK. It started as a community project—I had no intention of showing my own work. I wasn’t ready. But after curating a few shows and quietly building up my courage, one artist dropped out at the last minute... and I had no choice but to fill the space. So up went my paintings.
They stayed on the wall for four weeks—and the feedback was encouraging. That moment cracked something open. I began exhibiting regularly, and in 2024, I had my first solo show: a mix of paintings, prints, and illustrated homewares. A dream I didn’t even realise I still had.
In the past five years, I’ve launched a homeware brand, moved back to my homeland of New Zealand, and thrown myself head-first into this next creative chapter. It’s equal parts daunting and exhilarating.
Taking the Scenic Route
One conversation I had during my gallery days still sticks with me. A brilliant full-time artist told me she spent years feeling like an imposter because she never went to art school. So, in her 40s, she finally enrolled. She finished her degree, got the paperwork —only to realise she didn’t learn much she hadn’t already figured out herself. The biggest benefit? The time and space to paint every day.
That gave me some peace.
Because it’s not about the credentials or the perfect path. It’s about doing the thing. It's about following your curiosity, even if it takes the long way around. Sometimes we feel like imposters. Sometimes we’re wearing too many hats to know which one fits. But in the end, all of it—every experience, every detour—makes its way onto the canvas.
I didn’t miss my calling. I just arrived a little late—a late bloomer, and a lot richer in story.
So here I am, brush in hand, making up for lost time. I’d never really been off course — I'd just taken the scenic route.
Are you an artist who didn’t go to art school? Do you struggle with imposter syndrome? If so let me know in the comments how this affected you, and if you've overcome those feelings...
Photos copyright Abbey Mae