I grew up with an artist. Knowing nothing about art myself, all of the mysterious art supplies laying around our house fascinated me. The artist, my brother, is five years older than me. When in childhood, that age difference is quite grand. It seemed as if he was so wise and experienced in the ways of the world. I longed to have something to be passionate about the way he was passionate about art.
At ten years old, chin leaning in my hand, I sat and watched him work. “Why don’t you find a hobby doing something YOU like?” he asked optimistically that day. He set me up a work station next to him in his “studio.” I was going to be making Barbie doll clothes. After about 30 minutes of piecing scraps of material together with glue, I gave up.
I longed to touch all of the interesting tools necessary in creating art. I wondered what all of those magical supplies did. I rolled kneaded erasers around in my small hands, wishing that I too, needed this conglomerate matter for something. My curiosity piqued when I saw an open palette of oil paints wrapped carefully in plastic and stashed in the freezer. When I was certain I was alone, I slowly and delicately touched a paint color under the plastic with my little finger. It was soft. How is this soft when it’s been in the freezer? I snooped through sketch books, used the sharpest colored pencils to color, squeezed the paint tubes and sniffed the paint thinner.
“Did you poke my clay?” he asked one day. I crinkled my nose, “Poke your clay?” I repeated back as if I was insulted. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Did you poke my clay?”
About a month ago, I signed up for an art class. Upon receiving the list of necessary items for the upcoming lessons, I set aside a specific time to visit the art supply store. This was special! I would be going into this store and actually be needing the items for myself. Finally! Kneaded erasers galore! Shopping was divine. I tested different paints, tickled my arm with paint brushes, smelled the wood of easels and scratched my fingernails on stretched canvas. And yes, I poked the clay.
