Ever since I can remember, creativity in art, music, drama, photography, as well as the written and spoken word are things I have always been passionate about. I have tried and been involved in all of them, to varying degrees over the years in my quest to determine the best outlet for me. Painting and photography outweighed all else.
I've always been fond of a story that my parents have told numerous times over the years, of my young pre-school coloring book days. Apparently, I would sit at the kitchen table and flip through a book page by pagebefore finally choosing a picture I wanted to color. Next, I would go through the process of selecting what I thought to be the perfect crayon to use as my coloring tool. Now the hard part! I would scan the page of my desired selection, crayon hovering above the page, just waiting to be placed on the page to come to life...when finally I would decide on the precise area that my crayon should make its mark. I mean literally a mark. I'd place a single, select, solitary mark (which most times were no bigger than an inch in length), and voila my page would be done, and the tedious process would start again. Perhaps this was the start of all that I am today...
My older sister was also appreciative of art, and was very talented and creative herself. She would draw these magnificent houses whereby it looked as though the front layer (walls), of the house had been removed so that you could see inside and view all the rooms and the fine detail and grandeur that she drew on the page. I appreciate viewing the type artwork she created that was so detailed, methodical, and precise. I just cannot, or rather I choose not, to do that myself. It is very rare that I sit down to do something as such. Rather, I have always been drawn to creating abstract art. For me, it's the best way to express what I'm thinking or feeling inside.
* * * * * * *
In a Grade 8 Art Class in Junior High, my teacher shared a poem with our class that inspired me to never hold back from creating what I felt inside. I'll share it with you here:
He always wanted to say things. But no one understood.
He always wanted to explain things. But no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would draw and it wasn't anything. He wanted to carve it in stone, or write it in the sky.
He would lie out on the grass, and look up in the sky, and it would only be him, and the sky, and the things inside that needed saying.
And it was after that, that he drew the picture. It was a very beautiful picture.
And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.
And it was all of him, and he loved it.
When he started school, he brought it with him. Not to show anyone, just to have with him like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square, gray desk. Like all of the other square gray desks. And he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square, gray room. Like all of the other rooms.
And it was tight, and close, and stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arms stiff and his feet flat on the floor, stiff, with the teacher watching and watching.
And then he had to write the numbers. And they weren't anything.
They were worse than the letters that could be something when you put them all together.
And the numbers were tight and square, and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all of the other little boys.
He said he didn't like them. She said it didn't matter.
After that they drew.
And he drew all yellow, and it was the way he felt about morning, and it was beautiful.
The teacher came again and smiled down at him. What's this, she asked?
Why don't you draw something like your friend's drawing? Isn't that beautiful? It was all questions.
After that his mother bought him a tie.
And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone looking at the sky, it was big, and blue, and all of everything.
But he wasn't anymore.
He was square inside, and gray, and his hands were stiff, and he was like everyone else.
And that thing inside that needed saying, it didn't need saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed.
Like everything else.
- Author Unknown
Perhaps through my art there will be those seeking something that my pieces will fill for them too... Enjoy!
* * * * * * *
One last item to share on this page... I have a song that most definitely stirs the same passion and emotion inside of me that I get when I pick up a paint brush to paint. "I Breathe" by Flowers & Machines is an incredible piece of music to listen to. Check it out by clicking the link above.