but now that I read it again i realize that this was the first time i would fight for my right to pursue my craft without comment nor interruption. i first sent this out via email back in 2004 to a group of friends. the reply from one dear sister/friend who i thought i knew everything about was stunning because i always knew she was an artist. all her closest friends are and her convoluted reasons for going to law school never made any sense to me. what i didn't know was that her mom had quite effectively shut that part of her down due to her own fears about her ability to make a living - despite her winning an Ebony Jr. art contest when she was eight. i think about how often i am talked to "sensibly" by people i love who are convinced that i should do something else, anything else for whatever their reasons are. every now and then in the past 41 years i have been convinced - momentarily. this year every day i will recommit myself to knowing that my work is my god given gift to share with the world and it will always be worth the fight.
back in preschool there were only two easels, so everyone didn't get to paint every day. maybe everyone didn't want or need to paint everyday - but i did. so today is my day, it is my turn, and I am painting. a house, with flowers outside and a BIG yellow sun in the right hand corner. having just swept a brilliant blue sky across the page . . . here comes this round headed kid. bugging me. tapping me, pissing me off. i tell him to stop, to leave me alone. yes, thank you. i really like my house too. can you please move? go. I AM PAINTING!!!!
i call ms. haines over. she redirects him. i paint. he's back. i am carefully drawing a black outline around my house and adding double paned windows. it is looking good. there will be a swing set out back. i am in the zone, ignoring him but he is jacking up my concentration. bouncing around, talking. what is he saying? why are you talking to me? can't you see i am painting! i ask nicely, "please, leave me alone". i look up, i look around and then he is even closer to me talking again. his head is really big and very close to mine. i have no choice. i dip my brush and paint a large black X on his forehead.
then, i turn back to my painting, keeping an eye on him from the corner of my right eye while adding a few more yellow flowers to the front walk. he is stunned - and looks up cross eyed to see what is on his head. he's not certain what has happened to him but he knows it is bad. me too, but I don't stop painting. flecks of yellow and green add definition to the front lawn, a few red flowers - tulips, my favorite. then . . . he starts wailing. a long wide wail like a siren. i keep painting, faster now, adding a swing set with red seats in the back yard, looking out for ms. haines with the other eye as he runs screaming now to the other side of the room. and then, in an instant, painting is over. i am lifted away from the easel, apron confiscated, hands washed and escorted to the time out corner. i try to plead my case. i asked him to stop repeatedly and notified the proper authorities yet I am now in custody. an outrage. i use my time in time out to plan next week's painting . . .
what's your earliest memory as an artist?
back in preschool there were only two easels, so everyone didn't get to paint every day. maybe everyone didn't want or need to paint everyday - but i did. so today is my day, it is my turn, and I am painting. a house, with flowers outside and a BIG yellow sun in the right hand corner. having just swept a brilliant blue sky across the page . . . here comes this round headed kid. bugging me. tapping me, pissing me off. i tell him to stop, to leave me alone. yes, thank you. i really like my house too. can you please move? go. I AM PAINTING!!!!
i call ms. haines over. she redirects him. i paint. he's back. i am carefully drawing a black outline around my house and adding double paned windows. it is looking good. there will be a swing set out back. i am in the zone, ignoring him but he is jacking up my concentration. bouncing around, talking. what is he saying? why are you talking to me? can't you see i am painting! i ask nicely, "please, leave me alone". i look up, i look around and then he is even closer to me talking again. his head is really big and very close to mine. i have no choice. i dip my brush and paint a large black X on his forehead.
then, i turn back to my painting, keeping an eye on him from the corner of my right eye while adding a few more yellow flowers to the front walk. he is stunned - and looks up cross eyed to see what is on his head. he's not certain what has happened to him but he knows it is bad. me too, but I don't stop painting. flecks of yellow and green add definition to the front lawn, a few red flowers - tulips, my favorite. then . . . he starts wailing. a long wide wail like a siren. i keep painting, faster now, adding a swing set with red seats in the back yard, looking out for ms. haines with the other eye as he runs screaming now to the other side of the room. and then, in an instant, painting is over. i am lifted away from the easel, apron confiscated, hands washed and escorted to the time out corner. i try to plead my case. i asked him to stop repeatedly and notified the proper authorities yet I am now in custody. an outrage. i use my time in time out to plan next week's painting . . .
what's your earliest memory as an artist?
