I’ve always known I wanted to be an artist. Never mind that the rest of my family is made up of lawyers and engineers–from the moment I picked up a paint brush, I was hooked.
The kickoff of my art career came at the tender age of three. I distinctly remember noticing how blank the walls in our living room were, and how closely they resembled a piece of white drawing paper. Determined to fix the emptiness, I hiked up my diaper, valiantly climbed the kitchen cabinets to reach the junk drawer and picked out the most colorful and permanent-looking marker I could find. Blue magic marker in hand, I got to work. Within minutes there was a scene of people, rainbows, cats, dogs, houses, and flowers sprawled across the previously clean, crisp wall.
At this point I was giggling excessively, both exhilarated from the art flowing from my chubby fingers and terrified that my mother might emerge at any moment and put a stop to my creative expression. My hunger for more space soon lead me to draw on our new silk furniture.
I got in serious trouble that day, but the thrill of drawing has yet to fade for me.
I continue to enjoy and to create art to this day. I work mostly with oil paint, usually focusing on the human body. I hand paint interior and exterior signs for Trader Joe’s. Ironically, I still sometimes paint on walls, but now I get paid to do so.
I am always drawing, always painting, and always looking at the world like that bright-eyed three year old, anxious to put pencil to paper and make what was blank, full.