I was one of the lucky ones in the 1970's; I attended an elementary school where art wasn't just an afterthought—it was a weekly pilgrimage. Even now, decades later, I can walk down that specific hallway in my mind’s eye. The art room was strategically located right across from the cafeteria entrance, making it a landmark of the senses: the scent of school lunch wafting through the air mixed with the earthy, chalky aroma of tempera paint and wet clay.
I can still see the entire room with startling clarity. I know exactly where the teacher’s desk sat, the way the large windows invited the afternoon light to dance across the heavy wooden tables, and the specific arrangement of the stools that felt like thrones of creativity. Because I spent an hour there every week from first through sixth grade, that room became a sanctuary of consistency. It was, without question, my favorite place in the world.
Our teacher was a tall, quiet man who saw the world through a lens—literally. He was a large-scale black-and-white photographer, and I vividly remember the day he brought one of his own pieces into the classroom. To a young girl, it felt like a monument. It must have been five feet tall, a massive, starkly detailed close-up of a rugged work boot. Having never stepped foot in an art gallery or a museum, this was my first encounter with "Fine Art." It was magical. He didn't just teach us how to draw; he opened up my creativity in a safe, loving environment that spanned my entire childhood. I may not remember his name, but I carry his legacy in every brushstroke I make today.
And then there was my mother. God bless her; she was a woman who truly embraced the heartbeat of motherhood. She was the curator of my early life, a gentle soul who attempted to save every "treasure" her little girl produced. While time and many moves have whittled down the collection of ribbons, report cards, and newspaper clippings, one specific piece remains as a witness to my beginning.
It is a painting of a tree, likely from the second grade. It bears a small water stain at the top—a badge of age and survival. Looking at it now, I am struck by the continuity of the soul. Even then, I was drawn to the theme of nature. The tree is rendered in vibrant green and orange—contrasting colors that I still find myself reaching for in my professional studio today.
Back then, my favorite pastime was copying the illustrations from children’s books, trying to capture the magic of the story on my own paper. This little tree was the start of it all. It serves as a beautiful, humble reminder that we all share modest beginnings. Whether we are painters, writers, or builders, our journeys start with innocent curiosity. When we nourish those small sparks and stick with them, they don't just stay as drawings on a page—they grow exponentially into a life well-lived.
