I Didn't Think I was an Artist Until my Customers Told Me I Was

From Shop Floor to Studio: How I Accidentally Became an Artist at 60+

For 20 years I was a retailer. Shelves, stocktakes, customers, cash registers — that was my world. But under all that, I’d always been crafty. 

If it involved hands and mess, I’d tried it. Ceramics. Pottery. Jewellery making. Back in school I loved art, and no matter where I travelled, a tin of paints or a bundle of pencils came with me. I’d sketch in cafes, doodle on napkins, play with colour just for the joy of it. But “artist”? That word wasn’t for me. 

Then 2019 happened. 

The weird little vases that changed everything

I started painting again, no plan attached. Just weird little flower vases — wonky, colourful, a bit off-beat. I framed a few and tucked them around my shop, more as decoration than product. 

Then someone bought one. 

Then another. 

I was stunned. When customers asked who the artist was, I’d mumble, “Oh, a local artist,” and change the subject. Saying “me” felt embarrassing, like I was pretending to be something I wasn’t. 

But the paintings kept selling. And slowly, the confidence caught up. One day someone asked again, and I heard myself say, “Actually… it’s me.” Strange words. Even stranger, they felt true.

The more I painted, the more I wanted to paint. It became addictive — that feeling of pushing colour around, seeing what happens. I started experimenting like crazy. 

Here’s the thing: I get bored easily. Sticking to one subject or one colour palette feels like wearing the same outfit every day. So I didn’t. I painted whatever felt interesting that week. 

The only constants? Colour and pattern. Bold, clashing, joyful colour. Patterns that pull you in. Most of it traces back to memories — places I’ve travelled, people I’ve met, textiles from a market stall, tiles on a crumbling wall in Morocco, that particular turquoise of the ocean in Forster on a clear day. My work is basically a visual diary I didn’t know I was keeping.

What I’ve learned from starting late

1.  You don’t need permission to begin. I was 60+ when I started calling myself an artist. There’s no cut-off date for creativity. 

2.  Embarrassment fades. Curiosity doesn’t. Saying “I made that” gets easier. Wanting to try new things never does — and that’s a good - a cage. For years I worried because I couldn’t pin down “my style.” Now I think maybe my style is the changing. The colour. The pattern. The memory. The fact that I won’t sit still. 

4.  Retail taught me more than I thought. Running a shop for 20 years taught me about people, about what catches an eye, about display, about not taking yourself too seriously. All of that shows up on the canvas.

The door I was happy to close.

In 2020 I sold the shop. No more being chained to one place, no more opening that door 7 days a week whether I felt like it or not. I won’t lie — that freedom felt incredible. 

I do miss parts of it. I miss the buying trips. I miss merchandising a window until it sings. That side of retail fueled my creativity for years, and I’m grateful for it. But I don’t miss the clock. 

Now I schedule my days around family, friends, and paint. I’m building a new art business, and all those retail skills — display, pricing, talking to customers, trusting my eye — came with me. Turns out I didn’t leave the shop behind. I just swapped the floor space for a studio. 

So, am I an artist now? 

Yeah. I am. It still feels a bit weird to type, but it’s true. 

If you’ve got a crafty itch, a sketchbook you haven’t opened in years, or a “silly little idea” you’ve been ignoring — try it. Frame it. Put it in your shop. Or on your wall. Or just do it because it makes you feel alive. 

You don’t have to know your style. You don’t have to be confident yet. You just have to start. The rest turns up along the way, usually in colours you didn’t expect.