Art is in my blood.
I remember my dad teaching me to color when I was young, and now I see how much my young daughter enjoys coloring. It would be an honor to provide art classes for her if she wants them. Watching her, hazy memories gradually materialize.
Much later, teachers started telling me I had talent. I suppose I was good for my age. But really, it was a fierce passion. I adored the smooth feel of chalk pastels in my hand and the saturated hues of them on paper. Having paint on my hands was a point of pride, and a reminder of what was waiting for me at home. Most of my best memories of high school involve art somehow.
In those days, I used my face, hair, and body as a canvas as well. I suppose now I have to look like an adult, whatever that means these days, and hold it all inside. At least most of the time.
I’ve never been a huge fan of Renaissance and Baroque painting, with a few notable exceptions. I adore impressionism and abstracts, in bold colors with high contrast.
When I went to college, I didn’t make much time to paint, and I didn’t take art classes. I figured I could pick up later where I’d left off. I wasn’t going to be a professional artist, after all. I should focus on my “real” future.
Of course, I couldn’t pick up where I’d left off. I’d lost all the ability I had. That is one of the biggest regrets of my life. I can barely draw a chair or a hand now, and it’s agonizing. I want to start taking classes again. Naturally, I would have to start all over, but maybe it would come back to me and I’d be able to progress quickly. Later. I should focus on my “real” future.
But still, art is what I see when I close my eyes. Splashes of color and how they fit together, what could be done with them if I dared. Soon. This time, I mean it.