When I was 26, I went to college.
That's not the age that people usually go. But it's the age I went. I was divorced, and had three children, ages 3 months, 3 years, and 6 years.
I took Art 101, Drawing. I had always drawn well, and when I was younger, I made little sculptures. I won art contests in grade school. I won a prize in an art contest at the state fair,
When I talked to friends about taking the college class, I was warned that this particular teacher was a real asshole, really rigid, rarely gave out anything higher than a B. Actually, I found him to be stern but quite reasonable, although I had to argue with him to be able to stand up to draw, instead of sitting down. But when I was done with the class, he gave me an A, asked if he could put my drawings on display, and told me I should take more classes in the art department. I called my mom, Linda, a professional artist, and excitedly told her the news.
Mom took a deep breath. "Misty. I've seen the kind of men you date and marry. You can be an artist, or you can eat. Pick something you can make a living at." So I did. I became a math teacher. I also stopped drawing, somewhere around 1993.
And then I became a psychiatric social worker. I still wasn't drawing.
Time went by. The kids grew up. My mother died. I still didn't draw.
Then, just past my 51st birthday this year, I felt like drawing one day, and then I couldn't stop. So here it is, my journey to become artsy.
Linda, my mom, is gone. And now I have a lot of questions, but I guess I'll have to figure it out like she did.
So far, I've figured out...don't ever, ever, spray fixative in the house.