A personal narrative solicited by Brent Wilson & Mark Graham:
As a child, my mother (an artist) advocated every art form. We sung, danced, drew, painted and sculpted. Before I walked or crawled she held a crayon in my hand and we drew pictures together. My early memories of her are limited to a few brief glimpses of my hands in hers, working and creating. When she passed (I was three) the arts took on a new meaning. They became therapeutic. I felt near to her when I was making. Art became my medium—my communion.
For fifteen years the arts flourished in my life, and then, when my father passed at 18, the arts were knocked out of me. I craved for safety. Security and practicality took precedence over all else. I felt I no longer had time to indulge in crafts. Perhaps I feared wading through my own emotions, or perhaps, somehow, I even drew a parallel between my perceived artistic self-absorption and my father’s passing. I’m not quite sure. I placed my passion on a sacrificial altar, of sorts, and didn’t touch it for nearly three years.
There wasn’t a particular event that made me return. Perhaps it was just the mounting pressure, like an old rickety dam about to burst. But one day, for whatever reason, I picked up a pencil and began to draw. My heart pounded.
Art became the fire of my bones once more. I finished a BFA and threw myself immediately into a grad program in art education.
I’m not sure where I’ll end up. I’m not sure about a lot of things.
But I am sure of one thing—my heart is pounding still.
As a child, my mother (an artist) advocated every art form. We sung, danced, drew, painted and sculpted. Before I walked or crawled she held a crayon in my hand and we drew pictures together. My early memories of her are limited to a few brief glimpses of my hands in hers, working and creating. When she passed (I was three) the arts took on a new meaning. They became therapeutic. I felt near to her when I was making. Art became my medium—my communion.
For fifteen years the arts flourished in my life, and then, when my father passed at 18, the arts were knocked out of me. I craved for safety. Security and practicality took precedence over all else. I felt I no longer had time to indulge in crafts. Perhaps I feared wading through my own emotions, or perhaps, somehow, I even drew a parallel between my perceived artistic self-absorption and my father’s passing. I’m not quite sure. I placed my passion on a sacrificial altar, of sorts, and didn’t touch it for nearly three years.
There wasn’t a particular event that made me return. Perhaps it was just the mounting pressure, like an old rickety dam about to burst. But one day, for whatever reason, I picked up a pencil and began to draw. My heart pounded.
Art became the fire of my bones once more. I finished a BFA and threw myself immediately into a grad program in art education.
I’m not sure where I’ll end up. I’m not sure about a lot of things.
But I am sure of one thing—my heart is pounding still.
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