When I was 28 I dipped a brush in paint to stroke a blank canvas for the first time in my life.
As a child I always wanted to paint. I remember my mother's wooden easel propping up her pieces to dry.
I wanted to touch the tools and the media used to create what to me was a colorful make-believe.
Once I asked her if I could try and she said, "No," claiming, "these materials are expensive and not for little children, but I will get you some of your own."
That day (or maybe the next) she tied a vinyl apron around me and set me up on the back porch with shiny, thin paper and finger paints.
I remember mostly enjoying the cold sensation of gelatinous primary colors on my fingertips; but the experience felt limited. I quickly became bored.
I still longed to hold a real paint brush. But I didn't ask her again.
24 years later I realized I still had this longing, except now I didn't have to ask. I was working a mundane job at the bank and my co-worker, an artist shared some of his work with me. I told him I wanted to paint.
After our shift, we went to the craft store. We bought the tools. We bought the media. We went to my apartment.
We set up outside on my wooden deck, backing to nature. Like an animal in captivity suddenly set free, I didn't know how to start. I felt constricted, but somehow I began. The result was something similar to what would have come out all those years ago.
My friend made fun of me. He told me it was so contrived. Then he splattered paint on my shirt. One of my favorite shirts! I tried laugh it off even though I was terrified of letting go. Oh, that deep fear of losing control. (Years later, the fear remains but has loosened its grip.)
At that moment though, on that day...It felt too soon. I couldn't yet fathom the slightest bit of letting go. I wanted to take one step at a time. I was still in awe that I was free to paint, unsure why I had waited so long.
It felt deeply personal, and I didn't think my friend fully understood. This was an event, a milestone. But maybe he did understand. And I hope he knows how grateful I am for his spontaneity and willingness to accompany me to my first painting.
I hung the painting in my daughter's room (age 7).
Not too long after, my mother came to visit me and noticed the painting. She said, "Awe, that's cute." Then she asked if my daughter painted it. After informing her that I was the artist, she replied: "Oh it looks like a child painted that."
In a way, I guess she was right; my inner child finally felt free to paint with something other than fingerpaints.
As a child I always wanted to paint. I remember my mother's wooden easel propping up her pieces to dry.
I wanted to touch the tools and the media used to create what to me was a colorful make-believe.
Once I asked her if I could try and she said, "No," claiming, "these materials are expensive and not for little children, but I will get you some of your own."
That day (or maybe the next) she tied a vinyl apron around me and set me up on the back porch with shiny, thin paper and finger paints.
I remember mostly enjoying the cold sensation of gelatinous primary colors on my fingertips; but the experience felt limited. I quickly became bored.
I still longed to hold a real paint brush. But I didn't ask her again.
24 years later I realized I still had this longing, except now I didn't have to ask. I was working a mundane job at the bank and my co-worker, an artist shared some of his work with me. I told him I wanted to paint.
After our shift, we went to the craft store. We bought the tools. We bought the media. We went to my apartment.
We set up outside on my wooden deck, backing to nature. Like an animal in captivity suddenly set free, I didn't know how to start. I felt constricted, but somehow I began. The result was something similar to what would have come out all those years ago.
My friend made fun of me. He told me it was so contrived. Then he splattered paint on my shirt. One of my favorite shirts! I tried laugh it off even though I was terrified of letting go. Oh, that deep fear of losing control. (Years later, the fear remains but has loosened its grip.)
At that moment though, on that day...It felt too soon. I couldn't yet fathom the slightest bit of letting go. I wanted to take one step at a time. I was still in awe that I was free to paint, unsure why I had waited so long.
It felt deeply personal, and I didn't think my friend fully understood. This was an event, a milestone. But maybe he did understand. And I hope he knows how grateful I am for his spontaneity and willingness to accompany me to my first painting.
I hung the painting in my daughter's room (age 7).
Not too long after, my mother came to visit me and noticed the painting. She said, "Awe, that's cute." Then she asked if my daughter painted it. After informing her that I was the artist, she replied: "Oh it looks like a child painted that."
In a way, I guess she was right; my inner child finally felt free to paint with something other than fingerpaints.