When I think about what it takes to tell a good and true story, I sometimes wonder if I am brave enough to tell my own. What would that mean, and who would want to hear it. I guess that the reason to tell it would be to give some insight into what drives me as an artist. I am interested in discovering for myself what has brought me to this passion
It starts as most stories do; I grew up in a small town. My interest in art was sparked early. My family, as my young mind remembers it, was full of artists and musicians. I had two cousins who were very talented visual artists, and one who was a notably talented musician. My two uncles both played guitar. I always believed that this talent had come from my grandfather. He was a multi faceted musician. I wanted to be just like these members of my family. My goals were never money, or fame. I wanted to create, and live around people who inspired me. I dreamt of fitting into those parts of my family that I felt were closed off to me otherwise. I wanted to talk the trade of creation with them.
I was never close with my grandfather, but he fascinated me. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents as a small girl. I would spend time with them over my summer holiday from school, and the winter break. They lived in a city that was about three hours away from the small town where I lived with my mother. I love being with them, and away from home. I loved the way that their house smelled, and the feeling of that city. I loved going to my aunt’s house and borrowing her movies to watch on lazy afternoons. I made a friend there, and I found so much joy in being with her while I was staying with my grandparents. She was my secret friend who I didn’t have to share with anyone back at home. I felt safe, and secure. I remember drawing a lot. I had my sketchbooks that I would take outside with me. I would lay and draw on blankets in the grass. I would take them with me to lie under the yawning bleeding heart plants. These books came with me up into the two good climbing trees in the front yard. They were Rowan trees, and I remember making secret potions with their berries, leaves and twigs. My grandmother was always supportive of me while I created things, and discovered who I was. She always made me feel like what I was doing mattered. Ultimately, as I would discover later, she was one of the few people in my young life that made me feel like I mattered, and that I had a place.
I have so many memories of leaving that place, and crying. I cried because I didn’t want to leave my grandparents. I cried because I suddenly felt the safety of their home slipping away from me as the distance grew. I cried because I was wildly unhappy anywhere else. I cried because the farther I got from them, that feeling of taking up allowable space grew smaller and smaller until it faded away altogether.
I tell my good story through my art. It is, and has always been a window into what I am experiencing. I look at this blog entry as a new start down a road of a more open relationship with you, the reader, and my creative process. How I see my work as an evolutionary thing. I am excited to share it with you.
Crop of “Triple Goddess in Us All” 30'“ by 40”, oil on canvas.
