For as long as I can remember, there has not been a time in my life that art has not been a big part of it. If it was not painting, it was drawing, if it was not drawing it was arts and crafts of various sorts including sewing and cross stitching. I can honestly say that any of these were not much of a hard thing for me to figure out. I have always seemed to be able to do them better than average for my age. As long as someone showed me how, I flew. Then again I have always been a perfectionist. I got my inspiration from my mother. She is a wonderful artist and I remember watching her paint, watching her draw, watching her work with wood. She never got the chance to do much with it being a single mom until 7 years ago. It would amaze me, what she used to do. I remember watching and wishing I could do the same thing.
I remember in kindergarten, when it was art time and we colored and cut out butterflies and dinosaurs, I found myself looking at the other kid’s cutting and coloring jobs and would wrinkle my nose. I could not figure out why they could not remotely cut on the lines. Needless to say it was not long before most kids started marveling at my artwork, while I thought it bad and needing much improvement. I think it was in the fifth or fourth grade when the other kids began to beg me to draw pictures for them. I even got some kids who would look at me in awe and ask me to teach them to “do art” as they phrased it. It always boggled my mind when this question would come up. How do I teach someone art? How do I teach someone something that came to me like breathing? You just do it, and practice. Now I tell them to just practice, that I started drawing and painting before kindergarten and I can guarantee you that I was no Michael Angelo or Picasso at four. It takes some time and patience. A little imagination does not hurt either.
At the end of the fourth grade I was taken away from my mother for reasons I will not go into. It took me until the end of eight grade to realize I had been in a depression ever since. I am not sure how I missed the signs. I had thrown myself into a state where I recoiled into myself but my vent was not cutting or drugs or alcohol. It was art, art of any kind, writing poems, acting, but mostly drawing. I would draw for hours and when I got tired of drawing I would read. I also threw myself into my school work with my drawing as my way to vent my frustrations of middle school life. I believe art saved me in the end.
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